A girl my daughter’s age, gypsy, stunning, utterly alert. Rings etched onto right-hand fingers reveal her early marriage to beauty and reckless dancing. A child of the bleak Midwest defies her dutiful bloodline, takes to wandering and asymmetrical curls. Wry lip closes over a mouthful. They have caught her for one minute, before her mind once again changes. Through her life she stores them up, the revelations, the heaven in hell. I am not sure who she tells. A playmate, husband, river, aunt, dying elm tree, mouthful of jam.
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