Free Keeper of the Doves by Betsy Byars Page B

seem quite finished.
    Abigail would be marrying Lamar in the fall. All the sisters would be in the wedding. We already had our dresses—peach organza with embroidered sashes. Aunt Pauline said she didn’t think she could attend, because her wedding to Frederick would have been in the fall. However, she had her dress made just in case.
    â€œHere he comes, Adam. Bee!”
    Adam said, “McBee.”
    â€œNo, you’re a McBee.” I touched his shoulder. “That is a bee.”
    Adam was two years old now. I had taken over his education, the way the Bellas had taken over mine.
    â€œListen, Adam, do you hear any more zzzzzz ?”
    Adam put his small hand behind his ear. That was what Aunt Pauline did when there was something she wanted to hear. Adam shook his head.
    â€œThen we can pick that flower.”
    I picked it and added it to the others in the crook of my arm.
    â€œTwo years ago, Adam, there was a man who lived here—a dove keeper. And I never really got to know him. He went away too soon.”
    â€œOn the choo-choo train?”
    That was too painful a question to answer.
    â€œBut one time—right in this very cemetery—for one brief moment, I had the strange feeling that I did know him. Anyway, today we’re going to put some flowers on his grave.”
    â€œLet’s go,” he said, his favorite phrase.
    We opened the angel gate to the cemetery and stepped inside. Mr. Tominski’s grave now had a tombstone.
    Mr. Anton Tominski
Keeper of the Doves
Departed this day, August 11, 1899
    â€œLamb,” Adam said, running to Anita’s grave to pat its head.
    He continued proudly, “Ear . . . eye . . . nose . . .”
    He looked to me for praise. My eyes had misted over because I remembered that day long ago when I recited all the parts of our dog, Scout.
    â€œGood, Adam.”
    â€œ. . . tail . . .” he continued.
    I laid the roses in front of the stone. Then, with a sigh, I crossed to where Adam knelt beside the lamb. I looked at Anita’s inscription.
    Someday, I said to myself, someday I will write about you, Anita, because even though you only lived ten days, you seemed to make each day count for the people who loved you. You held your sisters’ hands, you smiled, you were loved. You’re still loved. You never, ever cried.
    I lifted my head with a sudden thought. And maybe, Mr. Tominski, one day I’ll write about you.
    â€œYou know, Adam,” I said aloud, “there are poems, there are stories, whole books, about people who lived hundreds, even thousands of years ago. Those people still live because of words. Words! Words are the most wonderful things in the world. As long as there are words, nobody need ever die.”
    â€œLet’s go,” Adam said.
    â€œLet’s.”
    And as I closed the gate behind us and the latch clicked shut, I somehow seemed to be closing more than just a gate.
    â€œI like the lamb,” Adam said.
    â€œAnd you knew the words for all the parts.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou are a smart boy.”
    â€œYes!”
    We started for the house. Adam looked back once for a final glimpse of the lamb while I, as Grandmama would say, turned my face to the future.