She was running around underneath the loquat tree, searching, searching. She could hear the sound and she knew he was nearby. But where was he? She looked underneath the bushes by the side door; she ran by the bedroom window, but when she scampered across the lawn to the black walnut tree, the whistle would call her back. She had gone too far, and knew to return.
Whistle, whistle. Ever so softly. It was comforting, familiar. Dad could whistle from his mouth without puckering his mouth into an “o.” No one knew how to whistle like him, and certainly the kids at school didn’t because they only knew the “o” way. It was out of the side of his mouth and was not too strong but always the same, sure tone.
Around and around she still couldn’t find him! Under every bush, behind every tree… and finally she heard a ...more