She had traveled over a field so blue with snow her soul shined silver. She had found a broken horse in that field and had returned him to Baptiste. She had danced in the dance arena with Baptiste and the sun had capped her head. But most nights were heavy iron pressing down upon her, colorless, nights when she was only aware of drawing breath, breath, exhausting breath. There were birds tapping the windows, black ice creeping over the edge of the pond, owls flying swiftly over her, snatching her breath, her breath.

Her thoughts rattled then stopped, clung about her like an ill-fitting dress that puckered at her breasts and pinched her arms. Memories that were not memories: soup dribbling down her neck. Cold fingers gripping her wrists, thick fingers thumping her numb chest. A thin stinging prickle in her hip that swirled her head like the chamber pot spilling, flushing over her thighs, the backs of her legs.

She looked out the window and the sun was high and cool above the house. She thought it was winter. It was winter yesterday, she remembered, but could remember nothing more. She heard her grandmother in the kitchen and she wanted to be near her. She strained to stand. Her feet were tender on the bare floor, raw, but the stretch renewed her. She pulled a blanket from the bed and slowly walked toward the kitchen. She winced to see Florence’s shawl hanging on the kitchen wall beside the stove. She remembered suddenly and too clearly how her grandmother had carefully beaded each red rose, had knotted every fringe, and, when her sister had died, had hung the shawl where it would always be seen and where it would always remain, unfinished and beautiful.

Her grandmother stood at the sideboard, kneading fry bread. The old woman turned suddenly as if startled and smiled broadly at Louise.

“Granddaughter,” she said, “I’ve missed you.” And Louise realized she had been gone a long, long time. Her grandmother wiped her hands on her long skirt and grabbed Louise to steady her. “Sit down here,” she said, and Louise felt her legs so weak she thumped into the chair the old woman placed before her. Louise looked at her grandmother’s face, saw the swollen tender skin beneath her eyelids. She reached for her grandmother’s hands and saw her turn away to touch her fingertips to the corners of her eyes.