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red blossoms, caught my eyes. Beyond them, even deeper in the woods, the white sycamores shone like lighthouses in the impending darkness.
    â€œIcy!” my grandfather hollered, waving. “Where have you been?”
    â€œAround,” I yelled back. “Exploring.”
    â€œAin’t supposed to trespass!” my grandmother screamed, her face reddening. “Well, what did you see” she asked a few moments later, as I planted my feet on the top step, then turned around, my back to them.
    â€œI came upon a pond,” I said, sitting down. “One I ain’t seen before.”
    â€œWhere?” Matanni said, loudly gulping down tea.
    â€œIn a secret place,” I said. “Nearby.” I shook my head, my golden hair swirling around my face.
    â€œChild, with that hair of yours, you look like a daisy swaying in the wind.” My grandfather laughed and rocked back in his chair.
    â€œA daisy with a secret,” my grandmother said.
    I pressed my shoes against the step. “Don’t you hear them?” I asked, making the rubber soles squeak.
    â€œHear what?” my grandmother asked.
    â€œMy shoes,” I explained. “They’re telling you where I’ve been.” I squashed my feet into the wood and swiveled them back and forth. “Listen!”
    Patanni creaked forward and pointed at my overalls. “Little Turtle Pond,” he said, laughing. “That beggar’s-lice gives you away.”
    Matanni jiggled the ice in her glass. “Icy, if you been that far, you must be thirsty. Can I get you something to drink?”
    â€œI’m more hungry than thirsty,” I said. “What’s for supper?”
    â€œPinto beans with ham, cornpone, and fried apple pies,” she answered.
    I sighed deeply and stared at the landscape. “Sure is pretty,” I said. “Like a photograph dreaming.”
    My grandfather cleared his throat. “But a photograph can’t dream,” he said.
    Extending my arm, I pointed at the empty space. “See how blurry it is,” I explained. “It’s neither day nor night. Kind of in between.”
    â€œâ€™Twixt day and night,” my grandfather said.
    â€œAll soft-like,” I said. “Like my goose-down pillow. Like the fluff on a dove’s breast. Safe, soft, and gray. Bad things shouldn’t happen at twilight.”
    â€œGod don’t put much stock in appearances.” Patanni clinked his glass on the floor. “Now, Jack-in-the-pulpit is pretty to look at,” he went on. “Jack peers up over the edge of his pulpit, protected by that green leaf hanging over him. All summer long, he preaches and preaches until, all wore out, he finally withers away, leaving behind little red drops of blood, a bunch of scarlet berries. If you eat these berries, your mouth and tongue will burn like fire. But if you think Preacher Jack is safe to eat before he withers and changes, you’d be mistaken, ’cause he’ll burn you, too. You see, it don’t matter how Jack looks. Jack is Jack, all the while.”
    â€œTwilight plays tricks,” Matanni said. “Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. Remember your daddy died at dusk.”
    Patanni groaned and stood up. “Yessir,” he said, “God keeps on working. In the soft, gray twilight, He took Josiah away.”
    Looking back over my shoulder, I stared at my grandparents. “I ain’t afraid,” I said. “Daddy died in twilight, but I was born in it. ’Tis safe for me.”
    With those words, we headed for the kitchen.

    â€œO ur heavenly Father,” Patanni prayed after Matanni loaded the table with dinner and we sat with bowed heads and closed eyes, “please forgive us sinners. Find it in Your heart to forgive an old man, who from time to time steals a shot of Satan’s poison from the barn. And please forgive an old woman who begrudges Lucy Wester’s jam-making