Adjusted in the Tomb,

When One who died for Truth, was lain

In an adjoining Room—

“Betrayed at length by no one but the fog whispering to the wing of the plane,” I said out loud. “Edna Millay. How do you feel?”

“I feel okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Birds fly, don’t they?” She put her hand on top of mine. “We’re going to have so much fun. We’re going to have a wonderful time.” The plane lurched again, then seemed to settle down. Outside the window were fields of clouds. Like a recurrent dream I had when I was small of being rolled in layers of clouds. I would wake from the dream dripping with sweat and run and jump into my mother’s bed.

“How long does it take? I forgot what they said.”

“An hour and forty minutes. I think forty have gone by, don’t you? At least forty.”

“‘The young are so old. They are born with their fingers crossed. We shall get no help from them.’ That’s another part of the poem.”

“You always tell me poetry. Tell me the one about your children are not your children.” She snuggled her shoulders down into the seat. I leaned toward her and began to recite The Prophet. “‘Then said, Almitra, speak to us of love. And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.’”

“Oh, it’s so beautiful. That’s how it is.”

“When did you start loving Charles William?”

“I always did. We went to kindergarten together. His momma would take me in their car. He’s always lived right there on the corner and I lived in my house. I haven’t ever had another boyfriend. I wouldn’t know what to do with anyone else.” She turned her face to mine. Her freckles stood up on her nose. Her beautiful small hands lay in her lap. The motors roared outside the window. The propellers turned. “He always takes care of me.”

“We’re going to have a wonderful time,” I said. “I bet it’s going to be the best weekend there ever was.”

“Do you know the part about the children? About your children are not your children?”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. . . . You may give them your love but not your thoughts, … for they dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.’ Is that the part?”