They know the story as well as their own:
When he’s close, when he wants us to know his love, William’s white feathers appear.
A tale told to a grieving mother, wanting to hold on to any piece of her baby
and passed onto the brother and sister, in the hope that they may know him a little.
A story.
That’s all it probably is,
not a truth
not fact
but in the magic of the season,
in the pure innocence of childhood,
today,
when they came to me with dozens of the pure, white, downy beauties
that they had found scattered in the yard,
today
I just had to believe.
