Sometimes I let my mind reach way back. I can almost hear Momma’s voice as she recites the pretty words:
“From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.”
Then, just as I drift towards peaceful slumber, she moves on to that dreadful song:
“When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
and down will come baby, cradle and all.”
A note to my grandchildren: I’ll always try to use the “pretty words”; and I’ll always try to catch you if you fall!