May B. (6 page)

      Thank goodness Mr. Oblinger

      built this house on a slope.

      There is no water at the door.

      With it open,

      a bit of air

      might help to dry the muddy floor

      before night comes.

      I sleep in the rocker,

      the driest spot

      besides the makeshift bed,

      where Mrs. Oblinger rests.

      The coffee’s on;

      still she doesn’t stir.

      The creek runs smoothly now.

      He should be home soon.

      I hear the wagon

      and head outside.

      It’s best if Mr. Oblinger sees me first.

      He swings down from the seat.

      “How’d you fare?”

      “The missus is tired,” I say,

      unsure of how to explain

      why she’s not yet left her place

      under the table.

      She’s up now,

      sitting at the table.

      He’s given her the coffee,

      thick from waiting on the stove.

      She holds a letter,

      stares at it for a time,

      folds it,

      stands,

      pushes past the doorway

      into sun and open prairie.

      Was it real,

      that talk we had

      the rainy day Mr. Oblinger was in town?

      She rarely speaks,

      and if she does it’s to criticize.

      Does she think I like it here?

      She’s not the only one

      missing family,

      wishing for familiar voices.

      She chose this place.

      Can’t Mr. Oblinger see

      the slow pulling away,

      the distance

      growing

      in this tiny space?

      When she sits around back,

      I imagine she’s counting the miles

      between here and home.

      Mr. Oblinger and Mr. Chapman

      split logs,

      lay planks.

      I bring out the pail and dipper

      and offer them a drink.

      Mr. Chapman nods his thanks.

      His beard’s fuller than Mr. Oblinger’s,

      but his clothes nonetheless look like town.

      Seems like all the folks west of home are new.

      Even so,

      Pa would approve of their labors.

      “Many hands make light work,” he’d say.

      They labor until the furniture is restored to its rightful place.

      There is only the entryway to complete.

      The men shake hands.

      “Much obliged,” Mr. Oblinger says.

      Mr. Chapman shrugs.

      “It’s what neighbors do.

      I’d appreciate if you could check in on my place

      once or twice.

      I’m going east for a visit,

      may not be back before the first snow.”

      A fine breeze stirs,

      the sunflowers nod,

      the day she chooses to go riding.

      Usually she stays close,

      like a tethered calf.

      “Pack some biscuits, will you, May?

      I want to see all that I can.

      The prairie’s so beautiful today.”

      She’s never spoken that way before.

      “Tell my husband I’ll be a while.

      Don’t count on me for dinner.”

      When Mr. Oblinger hears,

      he smiles.

      “It’s good to see her happy.

      Maybe I’ll be done with this floor

      before she’s back.”

      I stop Mr. Oblinger as he works

      to remind him to eat.

      My day’s quiet;

      I mend

      and iron.

      I work numbers

      and look at a passage in my reader,

      the one Hiram helped me with,

      about the vastness of the ocean,

      the limitlessness of the sea.

      His voice in my head helps me when I stumble.

      I’ve never seen water spread

      straight to the horizon;

      these endless grasslands

      are sea enough for me.

      This soddy’s like an island

      far from any shoreline.

      My home is out there

      somewhere.

      To me,

      a world away.

      Maybe because the day is different,

      it takes me time to notice

      the note

      left on the bedside crate,

      where she always kept her Bible.

      
Mr. Oblinger
,

      
You’ve been so kind
,

      
but I can’t stay
.

      
I’m taking the train

      
back to Ohio
.

      
Please understand
.

      
Louise