and at first I don’t believe my ears—

I turn to look—I’m not imagining things—

that question came out of Grace!

I stopped reading for a minute,

turned away, and she opened her eyes to ask

what happened next! I don’t know, Grace,

I’m reading it for the first time myself.

Mama said to wake her if there was any change,

but Grace insists, Keep reading, Muriel.

I think Anne really does like Gilbert, don’t you?

She keeps her eyes open, and I go on, as if

reading is breathing, and by reading I can

keep my sister breathing. “Then, just as she thought

she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists

another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge…”

Grace actually grins! See, I told you, Muriel!

Ollie’s clear baritone and Emma’s alto

come to me across the early morning air:

We didn’t know (Ollie’s voice)

the way to tickle Mary (soft laughter),

but we learned how, over there.

Let’s Climb Cobb Hill / Emma

Let’s Climb Cobb Hill

Emma

Ollie suggests, Let’s climb Cobb Hill

to watch the sunrise. We don’t talk while we climb

the narrow path through the trees. When we reach the top,

we sit down on a fallen log and Ollie says, Emma, I’ve been trying

to find a way to tell you something important, and there’s no fancy way

of saying it. Ollie has never been fancy with words; that’s fine—I wait

for him to find the solid, plain words he is looking for. He stares down

at his feet, looks up at me, takes a deep breath. Tears flood his brown

eyes. He blinks them back. I’m sorry about Frank, he says. A great

heaviness rises up, drapes itself around us. Ollie goes on: All day

when I was thinking about Grace, I would picture you crying

for your brother when I was over there … I can’t stop

feeling guilty. I wasn’t much of a soldier—I’m

sorry. (For what?) I couldn’t learn to kill.

In the Doorway / Muriel

In the Doorway

Muriel

“‘Dear old world,’ she murmured, ‘you are very lovely,

and I am glad to be alive in you.’” I can barely keep

my eyes open, but Grace won’t let me stop reading

until we get to the end. Mama opens the door

and sees Grace sitting up, eyes bright,

attentive to the story. She catches her breath,

comes in, and rests her hand on Grace’s forehead,

staring at her like she did eight years ago,

that August afternoon when Grace was born.

A warm breeze blew through the house that day—

as a fresh, cool wind blows now. Grace is smiling!

Mama stands behind her, brushing her hair,

and I read the last page of the book:

“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’