I can't hope for that.

She died when I was so young that she remained only as a beautiful dream for me.

But for my father she _never_ died, and as I grew older she became more and more alive for me, so that in our journeys we would talk about her as if she were waiting for us back home and would welcome us when we returned.

And never could my father remain away from the place where she was buried very long at a time.

He called it _home_, that little cup at the foot of the mountain, with the waterfall singing in summer, and a paradise of birds and flowers keeping her company, and all the great, wild world she loved about her.