She begins, and my grandmother joins her.Mother and daughter sing like young girls.If my father were alive, he would playhis accordion and sway like a boat.I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watchthe rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickersrunning away in the grass.But I love to hear it sung;how the waterlilies fill with rain untilthey overturn, spilling water into water,then rock back, and fill with more,Both women have begun to cry.But neither stops her song.