David Ferry is my uncle. He was never Uncle David. Just David, my mother’s “little brother.” He’s tall, carries himself with lyrical ease, and laughs easily. He listens intently to others, sitting with splayed legs, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands gesturing with flowing thought. For most of my growing up, it was “David and Anne” together, inseparable. (David’s beloved wife, Anne Davidson Ferry, passed away in 2006). Both of them were English professors. Sending letters to them—whether as questions about a school project or simple thank-you notes for birthdays or Christmas—tormented me because I knew words and language mattered.