May B. (13 page)

      Wind runs across the prairie,

      swirling snowflakes and brittle grass.

      I push through the icy gale,

      force open the barn door.

      Only one bale of hay is still intact.

      I squat to lift it,

      hardly seeing where I’m going,

      and make it to the soddy more by memory

      than sight.

      My sore ankle complains.

      Back in the barn,

      I kneel in the scattered hay,

      scooping armfuls into my dress,

      and press the hem against my waist.

      Outside again,

      the blinding white whips at my eyes.

      I bend my head for some protection.

      Snow gathers at the soddy door.

      I shove it open with a shoulder,

      dump the hay,

      and turn toward the barn

      again and again,

      until what hasn’t blown away

      
is scattered

      across the puncheon floor.

      Once,

      after weeks of rain,

      Pa had Hiram and me

      twist hay

      into bundles for burning.

      Now I sit in almost-darkness,

      binding hay in logs

      that won’t flame out,

      as just a handful would.

      Stepping over

      piles of hay bundles,

      bits of loose grass,

      I reach into the barrel

      for the last apple.

      For a moment I think

      I’ve left the lamp burning,

      but the brightness isn’t

      exactly the same.

      Around me,

      it’s as clear as midday,

      The papered window alight.

      I slip out of bed.

      Bits of hay stick to my feet

      as I pull open the door.

      A thin layer of snow blankets the entrance,

      sparkling in the morning sun.

      If only

      I’d not panicked that day

      I tried to go.

      But with the snow,

      it’s too late to consider again.

      Whether or not I want to be here,

      I am.

      The sun is out.

      Ma’s boots leave

      soft gray marks

      in the melting snow.

      It is too early for

      winter to last.

      I will be ready next time.

      My arm pricks as I lower it into the stream;

      the water’s even colder than before.

      I press my body to the bank,

      trying to cast no shadow,

      reaching deeper with my hand.

      Why did I never try for fish with Pa and Hiram?

      Soon I can hardly feel

      my wiggling fingers,

      but I keep moving,

      hoping trout will notice.

      Something flits below the surface,

      curves gracefully,

      slips by.

      I watch for movement farther upstream

      and let my fingers dance

      like moss,

      like water bugs,

      like tadpoles beating tiny tails.

      Then I spy one!

      It’s smooth,

      
a ribbon of color

      running

      down its middle.

      My fingers wave;

      it approaches.

      I am close enough to stroke its belly,

      and with one quick jerk,

      I grab that fish and throw it on the bank.

      Three fish—

      My stomach’s full

      for the first time in weeks.

      I’ve thought through arithmetic

      and worked some problems on my slate.

      I’ve recited states

      alphabetically

      and

      in the order of their joining the Union.

      My reading I’ve avoided

      ever since that day

      nothing worked right.

      Lamplight shines on my book,

      its blue cover frayed at the corners,

      the spine a lighter shade

      in the middle

      where my hand grips,

      finger smudges on the back.

      I examine it like it’s the first time

      Ma handed it to me,

      the reader she brought

      all the way to Kansas.

      She didn’t know then,

      I didn’t know,

      
the tricks words would play

      on me.

      What if I were to pretend

      the struggles never happened?

      What if I were to open this book,

      go back,

      start

      fresh?

      My fingers feel almost as chilled as they did

      this afternoon

      under the water,

      but didn’t I pull three fish to the surface?

      Didn’t I gut them,

      cook them up,

      and eat my fill?

      Surely

      these words

      can’t be as difficult

      to grasp,

      as slippery to work with.

      I find the page that tripped me weeks ago,

      
press along the spine.

      I shut my eyes,

      breathe deeply,

      tell myself nothing will change

      or surprise me

      when I open my eyes.

      No one is listening.

      No.

      Slowly, May,

      don’t go on what you remember.

      The words begin to swim,

      but I hold fast.

      Just one sentence to push through.

      I press the cover closed with both hands.

      My heart thrums

      as I turn down the lamp,

      slip into bed,

      filled to bursting.

      From the calendar I tear away

      one month,

      then two.

      Is it October

      or November?

      Time was made

      for others,

      not for someone

      all alone.