at that, but Grace is quick: Frank—she points

across the creek. Muriel, does this mean…?

I close my eyes and try to think, trying

at the same time not to think. I don’t know, Grace.

Mama has been gone a long time, hasn’t she?

Shall we take our peas to the Normans?

She nods. I gather a few eggs, five peaches,

all the peas we’ve picked, and put them in a basket;

Grace adds a small bouquet of hollyhocks.

It doesn’t help—the more we put into

the basket, the emptier it seems.

My Shepherd, I Shall Want / Muriel

My Shepherd, I Shall Want

Muriel

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

Emma repeats over and over, rocking

back and forth in a corner of their kitchen,

inconsolable. My arm around her shoulder, I

absorb the words she speaks, try to separate

them from her sobs: I shall not want,

I shall not want, the Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want. The words twist and turn—

meaning, at the same time, God willing, I will always have

enough of everything I truly need, and God forbid

I should want anything I cannot have. Eventually

her crying quiets and her voice is still; silence gathers

like a storm around us—maybe Emma shall not want,

but I shall. I want Frank to walk through this door.

I want the door to slam behind him. I want him to be

laughing, making all of us laugh, too. I want to know

where Ollie is; I want both Frank and Ollie home, strong

and whole, sitting right here at this table; and when

it’s time for us to cross the creek and go back home,

I want Frank and Emma to walk halfway with me and Ollie.

I want the sun to shine tomorrow morning on Frank’s

brown wavy hair and dimpled smile, and while I’m at it,

I shall want what I don’t even want. I don’t expect

to fall in love and I don’t plan to marry,

but maybe I want someone

to try to change my mind. Maybe

I’ve been wondering if that someone

might be Frank. Oh, Emma, Mama,

Mrs. Norman—who will I

not love and marry now?

Nest Blown from Its Tree / Emma

Nest Blown from Its Tree

Emma

The church is too small to hold so many crying

people. (We save a place where Frank always stood.)

Where did everyone come from, and how did they all hear

about this funeral? My place has been between Frank and Father.

All my life, their voices made a strong, clear arc my voice could climb

up to the rafters, soaring there on its own music, coming home to rest.

Now when the congregation sings this hymn Frank loved—“A Mighty

Fortress Is Our God”—my not-so-mighty voice struggles to take flight