There Ain't A Body, Be It Mouse

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.

Farewell” Is Not The Word That You Would Like To Hear From Your Mother As You Are Being Led To The Dungeon By 2 Oversize Mice In Black Hoods. Words That You Would Like To Hear Are “take Me Instead, I Will Go To The Dungeon In My Sons Place.” There Is A Great Deal Of Comfort In Those Words.

You Are Down There Alone, The Stars Seemed To Say To Him. And We Are Up Here, In Our Constellations, Together.

There Are Hearts, Reader, That Never Mend Again Once They Are Broken. Or If They Do Mend, They Heal Themselves In A Crooked And Lopsided Way, As If Sewn Together By A Careless Craftsman.

All Of That Loneliness And Longing In My Heart Got Transferred Into The Book Because Of Winn-dixie, I Guess.