luck, I’ll build up my muscle and look older.) I sort the

lumber. I might not finish it before … I start to

say. Before what, Ollie? I don’t answer.

Ten Days Home / Muriel

Ten Days Home

Muriel

Frank has finished his training; now

he has ten days of home leave. Then—

nobody can say for sure, but it looks like

he’ll be shipped overseas. We meet him

at the station—I’m the first to see him (I can’t

help noticing how his shoulders fill his uniform),

but I stand back when three girls surround him

as he jumps from the train, swinging his duffel bag

across his back. He scans the crowd—his eyes light on us

(on me?) as Grace sees him and runs to hug him.

He lifts her in the air and swings her high (she

almost kicks Edith Morgan in the jaw),

and Frank is ours for these few days.

We all gather at the Normans’ house for dinner—

Mrs. Norman slices a clove-studded ham; Emma’s baked

a batch of “Grandma Jean’s Best Dinner Rolls”;

Mama and I made a four-layer devil’s food cake;

and after Frank has eaten three large pieces, he plays

a few tunes on his banjo, Papa plays his fiddle,

and we sing until long after dark. Mama

lets Grace stay up an hour past her bedtime—

Frank shows her how to pluck a few notes

of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,”

and teaches her six verses, nodding to her

when he sings “to the sweetest girl I know.”

Grace smiles up at him—she may just be

the sweetest girl any of us will ever know.

I breathe in this all-together of our life—

how can there be war in a world where

Ollie’s baritone and Emma’s alto

harmonize so perfectly?

Why Not? / Muriel

Why Not?

Muriel

Frank’s home leave threatens to eclipse

my graduation, until he asks if I’m going

to my graduation dance with anyone—

Well, no—and, if I’d like him to take me.

I’m so surprised, I almost ask the question

that pops into my mind: Was this your mother’s

idea, Frank, or yours? I stop myself because

he stutters as he asks me—M-M-Muriel,

shifting from one foot to the other—Frank

who is always so confident and full of fun.

I can’t help smiling as I answer: Yes, I’d like that.

He stops stuttering, grins, and says, Our mothers

will be happy. Exactly what I’m thinking.

A little too happy for my taste, I say.

Frank shrugs. Who says we have to tell them?

We agree—we don’t! As I’m sewing my dress

(blue satin that swirls around me when I walk), I refer to it

as my graduation dress. And when Mama asks me

if I’m going to the dance, I simply say, as she