Lovely version of this classic Hank Williams ballad by Norah Jones.
Fitting for a cold and rainy Friday here in the Pacific Northwest. Here's hoping that your own heart - and the hearts of the ones you love - glows with lovingkindness.
Along those lines, I have to tell you this story.
Last night I sang Little Miss Bryn's lullaby. "Bryn's Lullaby", by the way, is this grim old Appalachian ballad of twisted love, murder and loss.
Missy loves it.
Little Miss cuddled down against my chest, all sweet little-girl smell and warm, dense squiggly little body. She asked me "Did my mommy sing me a lullaby, too?"
I told her "Your mommy did, and I'll bet your birth mommy did too." We've talked before about her mommy in China. As little as six months ago she didn't want to talk about the notion that there was another mommy other than "her" mommy, but she's slowly getting interested in the idea that she had a mommy and a family and a life in China before we adopted her.
"Where is my birthmommy?" she asked, sitting up and looking at me with a curious light in her eyes.
"We don't know, sweetie," I said, "but I'll bet she lives in China near where you were found."
"Is she sad I'm not there?" Missy asked.
"I'm sure she is." I told her; "I'm sad when you're not with me. She must miss you a lot."
She gave me a hug and said what she always says; "I miss you, Daddy!" And then she sat up and looked at me with a very serious expression.
"When I get big..." she declared, "...I will go to China and find her."
I snuggled her to me, loving her a lot and grieving a little for the knowledge that she will probably live her life with this little hole in her heart where this woman - a woman she'll always mourn - will never be.
"Down in the willow garden
Where me and my true love did meet
It was there we went a courting
My love fell off to sleep
I had a bottle of burgundy wine
My true love she did not know
It was there I murdered that dear little girl
Down on the banks below
I drew my saber through her
It was a bloody knife
I threw her into the river
It was an awful sight
My father often told me
That money would set me free
If I'd but murder that dear little girl
Who's name was Rose Connely
Now he stands at his cabin door
Wiping his tear dimmed eye
Gazing on his own dear son
Upon the scaffold high
My race is run beneath the sun
The devil is waiting for me
For I did murder that dear little girl
Who's name was Rose Connely."