and in one corner, a bluebird stitched in such detail

it looks like it will fly right off the cloth into the sky.

It’s something I’d expect her to give Emma

as a wedding gift—why is she giving it to me?

I know the answer without asking: she’s been stitching

all her dreams for Frank, trying to hold them steady—

no doubt I’m part of them. She holds it out to me;

I put my hands under hers and let the pillowcase

drape both our arms. Then I’m crying,

we both are, our tears watering the garden

she has made. Thank you, I say,

and she says, Those are lucky children,

waiting for you in Washington.

The Scent of Soap / Ollie

The Scent of Soap

Ollie

Slings. Bandages. Red cross and white cap.

Smell of antiseptic. Squeaking wheel on the medic’s cart.

Cold sweat—I wake up. No, I’m not over there—then where am I?

I must be home. Yes, here in my childhood room. (I hope I didn’t scream.)

Alone, dark night. But yes, home. I’ve been dreaming, remembering the war …

yet not only the war. Something new … like clean sheets, fresh off the clothesline,

sweet. Maybe the scent of soap? Lilac soap. And Emma’s whisper. Oh! I remember.

Meet me at midnight in Grace’s playhouse, Ollie. I was so sure I wouldn’t fall asleep! I

get up (everyone else seems to be sleeping) and meet Emma as we planned. I take

a stone I’ve polished, and offer it. It’s beautiful, she says. Then she mentions

my missing arm. She says, Let me see it. The stump of it? No! I say. I’ve

told her it is hideous. She touches it through my shirt. I’m adamant.

Tell me why not, Ollie. It’s one part of—who I love. So I show her.

Wings of a butterfly could not be as gentle as Emma’s touch.

I Step onto the Train / January 1918

I Step onto the Train

January 1918

Now, in the Distance / Muriel

Now, in the Distance

Muriel

I could still change my mind.

Until I’m actually on the train—I hear it now

in the distance—I could turn to Mama

(wearing her new hat) and Papa, each holding

one of Grace’s hands. I could turn to Emma—

and to Ollie, carrying my suitcase with such

a natural rhythm anyone would think he’s had

only one arm since he was born. I could turn

to Mrs. Norman, standing at Mr. Norman’s side, his hand

resting on her shoulder. I could turn to all of them

and say, I’m not going after all. I’m staying here.

There would be no shame in that. My place

here could still be opened in all the ways

it has begun to close. I know this

as the train approaches, as the whistle drowns