This morning she talks about older sister Helen, long deceased, who was visiting with two children, one on a tricycle.
“Who is that darling little boy?” Mother asks.
I explain that there is no one there that I can see.
“They were standing right there, at the foot of my bed,” she insists.
Bea, who never used to sing, suddenly remembers songs I have never heard before, songs her mother Bertha sang back in New Jersey, probably to both little girls, since they shared a room. This lovely lullaby, for instance:
“Go to sleep my baby. Close your big blue eyes.
Lady Moon will watch you through the darkening skies.
The little stars are peeping, to see if you are sleeping.
Go to sleep my baby. Close your big blue eyes.”