When I was a young boy I was allowed to go out and play in our neighbourhood. The general rule to follow was that we were to be home before dark, but there’d also be my father opening the front door, and whistling a pattern of two or three tweets. I can still hear it now as I type this. And I’d go dashing home. I’d have to drop what I was doing, to perhaps take it up again the next day.
I’m being poetic again . . . for I eagerly long for that whistle as I see all around me, it’s getting dark, God please call us home before dark.
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