bite an arm that isn’t there, but it’s so obviously not possible.

None of this makes sense. And another thing—or the same thing?

Why does the sight of our pigs wallowing in mud behind the barn

send me running into the house for shelter like we’re coming to the

end of the world? I’ve never been afraid of pigs! I see them in their

sty after a rain, and I start to shudder so hard I can barely stand up.

One image—pigs in mud—immediately brings another: dark

night, heavy rain, a muddy boot. And then my mind goes

blank. Pa says, It’s hard not to think about such things.

Ma says, Leave the war behind now. Rest your

brain. But my brain won’t rest.

What Kind of Luck? / Muriel

What Kind of Luck?

Muriel

Everyone is telling Ollie not to think

the things he can’t help thinking.

Mama cautions me: Don’t mention anything

that will remind him of the war. But what if

Ollie wants to tell someone what happened,

like Frank tried to tell me those hard

things he couldn’t say to anyone in France

or in letters to his family? Let’s go out

for a walk, I suggest to Ollie, after supper.

We walk in near silence for an hour—a few

small comments about the calves, the land,

the weather. When we come to the pigsty

Ollie sharply looks away, walks faster.

As we approach the gate, I stop myself

from reaching out to open it for him, and he finds

a way to unlatch it, swing it open, catch it, and close it

behind us with one hand. We keep walking, our footsteps

falling in a steady rhythm. Eventually

Ollie breaks our silence with one word:

Lucky, he mutters. And then, I’m supposed

to feel lucky because I still have one arm.

(Luckier than Frank—I regret the thought

the second it crosses my mind.) What kind of luck

is that, Ollie asks, to go through life

thinking about all the ways it could be worse?

I could have lost both arms, both legs, I could

be blind and deaf, I could have burns on my face

so bad you wouldn’t know me, I could be nuts,

I could be

dead.

I saw all those things, he tells me,

in the army hospital. Are they supposed to cheer me up?

Muriel, I’m telling you—he searches for words—

this stinks. I try my best to think of something

wise and comforting to say.

Yes, Ollie, is all I can come up with,

it sure does.

A Few Sentences Each Day / Muriel

A Few Sentences Each Day

Muriel

Every afternoon (five days in a row now),

Ollie and I take a walk together—today

we follow Crabapple Creek all the way

to Reuben Lake, the rhythm of our steps

accompanied by small sounds of birds,