There are pins in the map to mark the sorrows, and so we go there. And again.
I ask what might please her. She cannot say. We cannot fathom. She lives in a bramble of language. Nothing of any consequence survives it.
Once, she took a fisherman’s boat and rowed out past the headland into open waters, without sparing a thought for the fear of her elders. Now, try as it might, the pump of her heart cannot warm her hands. Her leather gloves are butter yellow to match the glow of her bag.
She has been dressing for Sunday the last two days. Tomorrow she will get it right.
Tomorrow Sunday will rise up to meet her. And she will be ready.
You take her hand between your own. When she laughs, I laugh and then we are all laughing, we are all of us laughing.