“Do you remember the day you came to ask my father for my hand? At first I thought you were too old, but you talked to me of your travels through Europe, of your studies in Venice, of how the women there wore their hair, of the fine mirrors, paintings, waterways and doges.” Gently I threaded my hand into the open neck of his nightshirt and laid it over his heart, which trembled like a baby bird tumbled from its nest. I willed it to regain strength.

“After we married, you would run your fingers over my skin and name the organs beneath. You told me the humors by which each was governed, the places where the soul is hidden. I delighted in your words.” His cleverness had averted my attention from his freckled body, his rounded belly, his back as bristly as a hog’s. The pause between each shallow breath was growing longer. I blew on his lips, to lend him my breath. “While I waited for a child to be upon me, you spoke of medicine and alchemy, prouder of my wits than I was myself. The agony of that wait! Do you remember? We formulated the yellow starch recipe together, though how far from your interests that must have been. You cared only to distract me from my fears. And when Thomas was born, his tiny face so like yours, I understood how very deeply I loved you. I have never stopped loving you. Look how fine a family we have built.”

I spoke to him of my mother, whom he would soon meet. The Norton family shattered without her to hold us together, shards landing close and far away, never again to form a whole. I was close to my sister, Mary, and younger brother, but not to my two elder brothers, by reason of their own characters and that of their wives. But I did not say that. I asked him to tell her that our marriage had been contented and blessed with children. She had talked to my sister and me often about love, but what we felt most was shame that she had lost her family position and brought upon us the condescension of our relatives; I regret that she died before I felt proud of her. “Tell her I love her,” I whispered. For my father I had no message. If George met him in heaven, he also would struggle to find a good word to say.

I heard the household go to bed. I listened to the “goodnights” and closing doors that brought silence to the street. At midnight, the watch ceased his pacing. The bells stilled, until only one tolled the passing hours. I did not sleep; I listened, remembered and loved.

Just after the bell at four, the rattle and wheeze of George’s breath ceased and he went quietly into eternal stillness. The little bird had perished.