The door was slightly 

                ajar

                       and singing 

                       low and rich

ebbed into the hallway

sunlight illuminated the dark

paneling, a deep sorrel of twists and knots 

the bubbles and whirls in the window glass sketching patterns 

across the toes of Jacob's dark stockings 

as he stood 

                   raptly listening

Adults never sang, outside of church or when

drunk and lolling down

the cobbled lanes of town, locked arm-in-arm 

with other drunken men

                 Was Uncle Emiel drunk? 

The singing faded and was replaced

by whistling

                       A spritely tune,  happy 

like the tunes of small, jaunty birds nesting 

                     in the budding trees in spring

Jacob felt his own lips pursing 

                    starting to whistle 

The same sprightly melody

                    he was a jaunty little bird, too

Inside the room 

the whistling paused . . .

. . . and then resumed after a few moments 

accompanied by 

the gradual

appearance 

of Uncle Emiel

vest-less and in stockings

                     him, as well

Uncle's shirt

glowed in the refracted sunlight like

the bright, cracking ice in winter

darkening his features 

transforming the brown, unbound hair

                    cascading over his shoulders

into a mysterious river

                  that ran through jungles and 

                 into the farthest reaches of the world 

the smell of the sea

washed over Jacob, gently

making him feel

            as if he were rocking

on waves

            he could not see

Emiel cast the song again

singing the same four lines 

twice 

pausing then for Jacob to join in

the third time

his light blue eyes, direct and clear

gazing into 

Jacob's light blue eyes as they sang

the same four lines

together

"You have a good voice. Do you practice often?"

Jacob shrugged and answered that he

might sing and he 

might whistle

but noticing, he 

never had

Emiel opened the door wide and

beckoned him in