The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve

my home.
    I must say that even today I remain quite certain that souls which take root in a particular geography cannot be successfully
     transplanted. I believe that these roots, these tiny fibrous filaments, will almost inevitably dry and wither in the new soil,
     or will send the plant into sudden and irretrievable shock.
    Evan and I came to a stopping place amidst the terrible noise and chaos. All about us were sons taking leave of their mothers,
     sisters parting from sisters, husbands from young wives. Is there any other place on earth so filled with sweet torment as
     that of a ship’s landing? For a time, Evan and myself stood together in silence. The water from the bay hurt my eyes, and
     a gust came upon us and billowed my skirt which had become muddied at the hem on the walk to the landing. I beat my fists
     against the silk, which was a walnut and was cinched becomingly at the waist, until Evan, who was considerably taller than
     myself, stayed my hands with his own.
    “Hush, Maren, calm yourself,” he said to me.
    I took my breath in, and was near to crying, and might have but for the example of my brother who was steadfast and of great
     character and who would not show, for all the earth, the intense emotions that were at riot in his breast. My dress, I have
     neglected to say, was my wedding dress and had a lovely collar of tatting that my sister, Karen, had made for me. And I should
     mention as well that Karen had not come to the landing to say her farewells as she had been feeling poorly that morning.
    The gusts, such as the one that had whipped up my skirt, turned severe, spiriting caps away and pushing back the wide brims
     of the bonnets on the women. I could hear the halyards of the sloops slapping hard against their masts, and though the day
     was fair, that is to say though the sky was a deep and vivid navy, I thought the gusts might presage a gale and that I would
     be granted a reprieve of an hour or a day, as the captain, I was certain, would not set sail in such a blow. In this, however,
     I was mistaken, for John, my husband, who had been searching for me, raised his face and beckoned me toward the ship. I saw,
     even at a distance, that relief softened his squint, and I know that he had been afraid I might not come to the landing at
     all. Our passage had been paid already — sixty dollars — but I had, for just a moment, the lovely and calming image of two
     berths, two flat and tiered berths, sailing empty without us.
    Evan, beside me, sensing that the fury had left my arms, released my hands. But though my wretchedness had momentarily abandoned
     me, my sorrow had not.
    “You must go with John,” he said to me. “He is your husband.”
    I pause now as if for breath. It is very difficult for me to write, even three decades later, of my family, who was so cruelly
     treated by fate.
    In our family, Karen was born first and was some twelve years older than myself. She was, it must be said, a plain woman with
     a melancholy aspect, which I have always understood is sometimes appealing to men, as they do not wish a wife who is so beautiful
     or lively that she causes in her husband a constant worry, and our Karen was strong, an obedient daughter, and a skilled seamstress
     as well.
    I see us now sitting at my father’s table in the simple but clean room that was our living room and dining room and kitchen
     and where also Karen and I slept behind a curtain, and where we had a stove that gave off a great deal of heat and always
     made us comfortable (although sometimes, in the winter, the milk froze in the cupboard), and I am struck once again by how
     extraordinarily different I was from my sister, for whom I had a fond, though I must confess not passionate, regard. Karen
     had dun eyes that seldom seemed to change their color. She had had the misfortune, from a young age, to have fawn-colored
     hair, a dull brown that was not tinged with golden highlights nor ever warmed by the sun, and I