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Ms. Minifred’s hair. For Lalo another year like all the other years.
    “This year we will be talking about the power of language,” said Ms. Minifred. “The power of words. And how words can change you.”
    I stared at Ms. Minifred.
    What about when there are no words? I thought.
Silence can change you, too, Ms. Minifred
.
    Ms. Minifred looked at me, as if she had read my thoughts.
    “Words,” she said.
    She looked away, out the library windows, as if she was hearing words from far away. Then she waved her arm at the library shelves.
    “In this room, in these books, there is the power of a hundred hurricanes. Wondrous words,” said Ms. Minifred.
    Lalo and I looked at each other and smiled. Another year.

    Mama was right. Sophie was waiting for us at home, her face pressed against the window, when Lalo and I came up the porch steps at the end of the school day.
    The second week of school Sophie took her first step, pushing off from Papa’s tiled tap-dancing table. Papa clapped, Byrd smiled, Mama cried, and from then on Sophie walked; sometimes tilted forward as if a wind pushed her; sometimes tottering so that our hands went out to protect her.
    Sophie rode the island’s dirt roads on a seat on the back of Mama’s bicycle, pointing to dogs and cats. She learned to wave by cupping her hand and waving to herself. She learned what the word
hot
meant when she touched the oven door, and that
no
meant
no
when she went near Mama’s wet canvases.
    And then very suddenly one day she began to put her hands behind her back and bring them out in fists, hands flat, or two-fingered shapes.
    “Rock, paper, scissors,” said Papa softly. “Sophie learned. She doesn’t know what it means, but she learned.”
    Mama smiled.
    “That’s how it is with children,” said Byrd. She paused. “Someday, she will remember all of this in some way, you know.”
    We looked at Byrd, then at Sophie. Mama turned from the window, her smile fading, all of us thinking of Sophie’s mother. Papa watched Mama. It was as if Byrd, in one sentence, had pulled Sophie back from us to a place where we couldn’t follow.
    Sophie got up unsteadily and looked at Papa. She picked up one foot and put it down. She did it again.
    “The shuffle,” whispered Mama. “She wants you to dance.”
    Mama watched Papa.
    “She wants you to dance,” she repeated, her voice so thin, it almost broke.
    There was a silence. Then Papa leaned over and picked up Sophie. Slowly he began to dance holding her, Sophie beginning to grin at him. But Papa didn’t grin back at her. He looked at Mama as he sang.
    Me and my shadow
    Strolling down the avenue
.
    Me and my shadow
,
    Not a soul to tell our troubles to
.
    And when it’s twelve o’clock
,
    We climb the stair;
    We never knock
    For nobody’s there
.
    Papa and Sophie danced a long time, the late afternoon light falling over them like a spotlight. Mama watched, standing by the window. Byrd sat, straight as a tree. Only Lalo smiled.
    “Come, Larkin,” called Papa. “Dance with us.”
    I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said.
    The next day Sophie’s letter came, almost as ifByrd’s words about Sophie’s mother had made it happen. Five one-dollar bills slipped out of the letter in Mama’s hand as she read.
    Dear Sophie
,
    Happy birthday. I love you. I think of you every hour, every minute of every day
.
    Don’t forget me
.
    Love,  
Mama
.

winter

She loved the wind and she loved music. She remembered them together; the sound of the wind in the marsh grass and a song that she dreamed, a thread sound of song that she couldn’t remember when she woke
.

chapter 7
    Winter came fast with a surprising sudden snow the day before Thanksgiving. We bought Sophie a snowsuit, red boots, and mittens, knowing that the snow would never last. Island snow never lasted. Sophie didn’t like the mittens; she didn’t like the snowsuit; she didn’t like snow. Sophie did like her red rubber boots, shuffling around the house in them