And so--I always loved him. He was movement--and
wonder. In his short life were many flights. I never told anyone about
the last one. His little bed was by the window--he wasn't four years
old. It was night, but him not asleep. He saw the morning star--you
know--the morning star. Brighter--stranger--reminiscent--and a promise.
He pointed--'Mother', he asked me, 'what is there--beyond the stars?' A
baby, a sick baby--the morning star. Next night--the finger that pointed
was--(_suddenly bites her own finger_) But, yes, I am glad. He would
always have tried to move and too much would hold him. Wonder would
die--and he'd laugh at soaring, (_looking down, sidewise_) Though I
liked his voice. So I wish you'd stay near me--for I like your voice,
too.
TOM: Claire! That's (_choked_) almost too much.
CLAIRE: (_one of her swift glances--canny, almost practical_) Well, I'm
glad if it is. How can I make it more? (_but what she sees brings its
own change_) I know what it is you're afraid of. It's because I have so
much--yes, why shouldn't I say it?--passion. You feel that in me, don't
you? You think it would swamp everything. But that isn't all there is to
me.
TOM: Oh, I know it! My dearest--why, it's because I know it! You think I
_am_--a fool?
CLAIRE: It's a thing that's--sometimes more than I am.
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