He says the trip over was terrible, everyone was seasick,

but now they’re getting ready to fight. He sounds

excited, he sounds proud—here, read it yourself.

I take the letter from her and turn away

so she can’t see my hand trembling,

heaven knows why—it’s not as if Frank

is my brother, it’s not as if … Well, in any case,

I’m glad to know he has safely crossed the ocean:

The sea voyage was very rough, but at least

we finally got some time to write a few letters,

and tomorrow we’ll be able to mail them.

The food is terrible—Mother, what I’d give

for a dish of your apple crisp, warm from the oven.

But I can’t complain—the blisters on my heels

have turned to calluses, and I guess we’re all

as ready as we’ll ever be for what comes next.

Tell Ollie thanks for helping on the farm.

Tell Muriel—Why has he crossed that out?

My love to everyone, Frank.

2:25 / Muriel

2:25

Muriel

One good thing about Mama’s working:

I’m the one to meet the mailman

at 2:25 this afternoon while Grace

is taking her nap. Dear Muriel, Thank you

for your letter. I meant to apologize

for my behavior on the train platform.

I’m glad to see you aren’t holding that

against me. I don’t know what came over me—

you looked so pretty in that yellow blouse, I guess

I got carried away. Well, we’re in France now,

and I’m afraid there’s not too much to write about,

unless you’re interested in trench shovels,

mud, the sound of other fellows snoring

all night long. You’re not? I didn’t think so.

How’s everyone at home? Tell Grace

I liked her picture, and she can draw me

standing with the rest of you on that last stone. That’s

where I see myself whenever they give us time

to think of home. Which isn’t often.

Yours, Frank.

Seeing Things / Emma

Seeing Things

Emma

Everywhere, I’m seeing

things that make me think of

Ollie. The red geranium in Grace’s

playhouse window—his last day, when

he knew he’d be leaving, but I did not. A hay

bale’s wisps of hay stick out like Ollie’s hair—I

reach out to tuck them back into his hat. The cat,

lost for three days, comes home skinny—even that

makes me wonder: Is Ollie eating well? When a fly

lands on my arm, I remember Ollie’s arm, the way

he’d flex his muscle, showing off. The white hen

is laying three or four eggs every day in places

she never has before: Wouldn’t Ollie love

an omelet? (He is only sixteen!)

Careful / Muriel

Careful

Muriel

Papa slaps the newspaper down on the table.

They’ve gone and done it. Now it is, in fact,