His life? However long I live, it won’t

be long enough to silence that suggestion.

I stuff the letter deep into my pocket

(“my dear” … “with love”)

and walk to Reuben Lake. A harsh wind

whips up the water’s surface; somewhere

among the whitecaps’ tumult, a loon

cries out. Hard as I listen for an answer,

there is none.

Applesauce / Muriel

Applesauce

Muriel

Bushels of red apples,

knife against my thumb,

peelings curling in a pile

on the floor. Grace’s chatter.

Mama’s admonitions and advice.

You’re awfully quiet, Muriel.

What’s wrong with you today?

Emma and her mother

stir the apples, keep

the pot from boiling over.

(Thank you, Emma,

for the question you

refrain from asking.)

I have burned

the letter. I will never

tell a soul what it contained.

White Shirt Crumpled in the Mud / October 1917

White Shirt Crumpled in the Mud

October 1917

Her Careful Signature / Muriel

Her Careful Signature

Muriel

Another letter from Aunt Vera—disappointing,

and peculiar. My dear ones, it begins,

As you may know, We are still here: you

Have probably finished your canning by now.

Has the pastor Stopped by to see you lately?

I hope to be Eating Thanksgiving dinner with you

next month. And then her careful signature.

Papa puzzles over it—why doesn’t she tell us

what is happening in prison? She must know we’re worried.

Mama pulls her lips into a tight line.

Papa hands me the letter, and I read it four times.

It’s not like Aunt Vera, I point out, to make errors

in capitalization. That’s her job, as a secretary,

to correct the errors other people make.

We analyze the words she has mis-capitalized:

We … Have … Stopped … Eating. A hunger strike?

It’s the only power they have—to refuse

what their jailers try to feed them.

Papa runs his hands through his hair, leans against

the door, and lets out a long, low whistle.

These women mean what they say, he says.

This could go on awhile. It could get worse.

What is Papa saying? They can’t refuse

to eat forever—can they? If they could,

no one would let them die of starvation—would they?

Either the president will issue an order

to release them, or the women will start eating.

I can’t imagine (though I can’t stop trying)

how it could get worse.

I Know Instantly / Muriel

I Know Instantly

Muriel

Ollie! I’m hanging out the clothes,

pinning Papa’s church shirt to the line,

and I look up to see the merest speck

off in the distance, coming closer. I know

instantly it’s Ollie—I recognize him by

the rhythm of his walk. I drop the white shirt

in the mud and run so hard I’m barely breathing

by the time I’m close enough to see his smile.

I throw my arms around his neck and he

sets down his duffel bag and puts …