between them, circles for the crossing stones

spaced across the creek, stick-people

standing on the circles holding hands,

a small girl with brown braids (Grace)

between two bigger girls—she means them to be

straight-haired Emma and curly-haired me—

and a slightly taller boy—obviously Ollie—

holding Emma’s other hand. On my other side,

she’s drawn a stone with no one on it, my hand

stretched out toward it, reaching out to someone

who’s not there. I drew this for Frank, she says.

Can we send it to him? I’ve been thinking

I could write to him—why not? Yes, Grace,

let’s do that, I say. I’ll write a note to send him,

along with your picture. Frank will enjoy that.

It’s harder than I thought to find the words I need:

Dear Frank, How are you? I’m (no …)

We’re guessing you’re in France by now.

There’s a lot of work to do around here—

you know how it is this time of year—

picking the strawberries, weeding the beans.

Boring. I tear it up. I’m looking out the window,

chewing on my pen, when Mama comes home

from her new job. Muriel, are you writing to Frank? she asks.

I bend my head over the paper, but I can’t hide

the blush that rises—Oh, I mumble,

Grace drew a picture, I’m only …

I’m not aware I know this rule, until

I’m embarrassed to be caught breaking it:

The gentleman should always

be the first to write, Mama informs me.

A lady never writes until she has received a letter.

Grace bursts into tears. I drew this for Frank!

Why can’t I send it? Mama smiles down at her.

Don’t be silly, Grace. You’re a little girl,

not a young lady. I’ll help you mail your drawing.

The two of them go in the other room to find

an envelope, and I pick up my pen and try again

to find the words I want to say to My dear Frank …

No. Hello, my friend? No …

Frank’s Absence / Emma

Frank’s Absence

Emma

Summer is different now. Bessie demands

we clean her stall; Frank isn’t here, so it’s up to me.

Who will help Father plow the field? Ollie will help, I say—

yes, here he comes now, whistling through our door just as I stoke

the fire to heat some soup for lunch. But even Ollie can’t fill the empty spot

that Frank leaves, an odd-shaped missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of our lives.

And maybe worse—what I did not expect—although we all claim nothing can fill

that space, somehow the chores do get done. Mother takes the wheat to the mill;

I watch Grace while Muriel helps Father shoe the horses. We sharpen knives;

we pitch the hay. Mother and I help Father birth the calf—Bessie does not