chipmunks, a family of raccoons, the crunch

of dry leaves, and, when we reach the lake,

the back-and-forth lament of a pair of loons.

Returning home along the road, Ollie

glances toward the school. What time

is it? he asks. One o’clock, I answer. Grace and Emma

won’t be out for two more hours. Ollie turns his face

away from me; he may be embarrassed

that I’ve guessed he’s thinking about Emma.

I don’t know if I’ll ever graduate, he says.

I can’t seem to think straight; my mind keeps

wandering back to things I don’t know how

to think about. A horse whinnies and comes over

to the fence; Ollie pulls up a handful of grass

and feeds him. Animals always seem to trust you,

I say. He nods and starts to speak, but

doesn’t. A shudder passes over him, and

we walk home in silence—not the kind where

two people are so comfortable that nothing

needs to be spoken, the kind where

something is trying to be said

and no one knows the words.

As soon as we get home, Ollie

goes into his room, shuts the door,

and stays there until dinner.

Daisies on a Pillowcase / Emma

Daisies on a Pillowcase

Emma

Mother needs a good, reliable friend

these days, more than she ever has. I wish she would

go with me to the Jorgensens’. Each day she says, I’ll go tomorrow.

She’s been embroidering daisies on a pillowcase for five weeks! It’s best

not to push her, Mrs. Jorgensen says. Your mother can’t talk about Frank yet,

but she probably can’t think about anything else. Be patient, Emma, grief takes time.

Yes, but so does my schoolwork plus cooking and washing dishes and hanging clothes

and dusting furniture and cleaning out the horses’ stalls. While Mother grieves, those

endless tasks aren’t doing themselves. Has Father, or anyone, even noticed that I’m

doing most of Mother’s work, all my own, and half of Frank’s? Will I ever get

time to grieve for my brother? (And, in a way, for Ollie.) When can I rest?

Now I’m ashamed of this anger—a mix of exhaustion and sorrow

that bubbles up, then settles down. Here comes Ollie. Could

he help stack the firewood? I have clothes to mend.

The Phone Rings / Two Short, One Long / Muriel

The Phone Rings: Two Short, One Long

Muriel

I’m home alone, except for Ollie,

who is sleeping at noon on a Monday

while Mama and Papa are at work.

The phone rings: two short, one long—

our ring on the party line. You have

a long-distance call, the operator says,

from Washington, D.C. (Could it be Aunt Vera?)

Hello, am I speaking to Mrs. Jorgensen? (Danish accent,

a younger woman, not Aunt Vera’s voice.)

No, I answer, this is Muriel, her daughter.

May I help you? A slight pause, then,