sewing skill
to make hats for a milliner.
She might glean some small joy from that.
These are the fates
of disowned daughters—
you hear of them
in only the faintest whispers—
the most they can hope for.
These are my fates now.
Finally I stand before Peter’s house:
a small
white
square
frame house,
a bit of fence in front.
Perhaps I stand too long.
A door slams
and a neighbor woman glares. “You have business here?”
Her hair is crinkly gray
and her skin is grayer.
“I am a friend …” I nod toward Peter’s home.
“Well, a friend is what they’re needing, that’s for sure.”
“Oh?”
“Hard times”—she nods her gray head—
“I been helping what I could,
but I got my own houseful.”
“I am sure they are grateful,” I say, not sure at all.
Not sure of anything.
“Well, you best get to it, then.” The woman jabs a thumb
in the direction of Peter’s house,
and I take those last steps
into my new life.
A garden grew here once,
a tiny parterre
in the square that would be a yard.
The center has something
that was once a sundial,
stone
and iron.
Flower boxes overflow with weeds.
A woman lived here once,
but a long time ago.
I knock. Knock again.
The only answer is coughing.
Fear of imposing
is overtaken by concern
and I try the door.
My eyes adjust to the dimness.
The air is damp
and smells of sickness.
Coughing
and moaning
come from the bedroom straight ahead,
punctuated by dripping
in the open doorway.
Someone in the bed.
“Peter?”
It takes an eternity
to cross the main room.
“Peter?”
The face is not his.
An older man,
subtly familiar.
Peter’s father.
He squints at me. “Anna?”
He becomes agitated.
“You’ve come for me at last.
Where have you been so long?”
Ashen,
eyes enormous,
he tries to raise himself,
tangling in the bedding.
“Please, sir…I am Peter’s friend …”
Too frightened to finish,
I back away
and run aground
something,
ricochet into the doorjamb.
“Peter!”
How glad I am to see him!
Even slouching
under a blanket,
red-eyed,
unshaven.
He wavers.
I reach out to steady him.
He looks at me blankly
at first,
perhaps not understanding
how I had come to be there,
then raises his arms.
The blanket becomes wings.
He is broader
but thinner.
My arms go round
ribs.
My head does not rest
on the smooth rise of his chest
as it once did,
but on collarbones.
His woolen embrace
envelopes me, though,
and I feel warm for the first time today.
He leans on me,
too hard.
His eyes wander to the ceiling.
“Peter, what is wrong?”
I help him to a plank chair
near the potbelly stove, expecting heat
but finding the metal grate cold.
“So tired,” he sighs. “I’m just so tired.”
Once the stove is going,
I rearrange the blankets
and tuck him into a cot by the door.
The rocker in the corner
yields a cushion
and I stuff it under his head.
At last, the dark chill
is off the room.
I search for food
in the cupboard,
anything to give them
before I go.
I count the coins in my purse,
cover my head with Peter’s coat,
and run for the shops,
hoping for a baker,
some soup vegetables,
and strong coffee.
Bread,
broth,
and kindness,
a cool hand on the brow,
this is all I know to do.
I stoke the fire,
rock in the chair
under Peter’s coat,
and listen to the rain
and the rivers.
I recall the sound of
South Fork Creek cascading
from the spillway
higher up on the mountain,
and imagine that same water
rushing by me now in Johnstown
by way of the Little Conemaugh.
Then that river joins the Stony Creek
roaring into Johnstown from the south.
Three rivers …
all overflowing their banks,
creeping up like a tide …
Sleep slips over me like a veil.
I dream a woman is watching me,
eyes earnest,
a sympathetic turn to her mouth,
but
I must be awake
and it is only a portrait of Peter’s mother
above the stove.
This must be Anna ,
I hear my own thought
as I give in to sleep.
Peter
Gone down under the waves now.
Exhaustion’s claimed me.
I dreamed of Celestia,
that she was
right here in
to make hats for a milliner.
She might glean some small joy from that.
These are the fates
of disowned daughters—
you hear of them
in only the faintest whispers—
the most they can hope for.
These are my fates now.
Finally I stand before Peter’s house:
a small
white
square
frame house,
a bit of fence in front.
Perhaps I stand too long.
A door slams
and a neighbor woman glares. “You have business here?”
Her hair is crinkly gray
and her skin is grayer.
“I am a friend …” I nod toward Peter’s home.
“Well, a friend is what they’re needing, that’s for sure.”
“Oh?”
“Hard times”—she nods her gray head—
“I been helping what I could,
but I got my own houseful.”
“I am sure they are grateful,” I say, not sure at all.
Not sure of anything.
“Well, you best get to it, then.” The woman jabs a thumb
in the direction of Peter’s house,
and I take those last steps
into my new life.
A garden grew here once,
a tiny parterre
in the square that would be a yard.
The center has something
that was once a sundial,
stone
and iron.
Flower boxes overflow with weeds.
A woman lived here once,
but a long time ago.
I knock. Knock again.
The only answer is coughing.
Fear of imposing
is overtaken by concern
and I try the door.
My eyes adjust to the dimness.
The air is damp
and smells of sickness.
Coughing
and moaning
come from the bedroom straight ahead,
punctuated by dripping
in the open doorway.
Someone in the bed.
“Peter?”
It takes an eternity
to cross the main room.
“Peter?”
The face is not his.
An older man,
subtly familiar.
Peter’s father.
He squints at me. “Anna?”
He becomes agitated.
“You’ve come for me at last.
Where have you been so long?”
Ashen,
eyes enormous,
he tries to raise himself,
tangling in the bedding.
“Please, sir…I am Peter’s friend …”
Too frightened to finish,
I back away
and run aground
something,
ricochet into the doorjamb.
“Peter!”
How glad I am to see him!
Even slouching
under a blanket,
red-eyed,
unshaven.
He wavers.
I reach out to steady him.
He looks at me blankly
at first,
perhaps not understanding
how I had come to be there,
then raises his arms.
The blanket becomes wings.
He is broader
but thinner.
My arms go round
ribs.
My head does not rest
on the smooth rise of his chest
as it once did,
but on collarbones.
His woolen embrace
envelopes me, though,
and I feel warm for the first time today.
He leans on me,
too hard.
His eyes wander to the ceiling.
“Peter, what is wrong?”
I help him to a plank chair
near the potbelly stove, expecting heat
but finding the metal grate cold.
“So tired,” he sighs. “I’m just so tired.”
Once the stove is going,
I rearrange the blankets
and tuck him into a cot by the door.
The rocker in the corner
yields a cushion
and I stuff it under his head.
At last, the dark chill
is off the room.
I search for food
in the cupboard,
anything to give them
before I go.
I count the coins in my purse,
cover my head with Peter’s coat,
and run for the shops,
hoping for a baker,
some soup vegetables,
and strong coffee.
Bread,
broth,
and kindness,
a cool hand on the brow,
this is all I know to do.
I stoke the fire,
rock in the chair
under Peter’s coat,
and listen to the rain
and the rivers.
I recall the sound of
South Fork Creek cascading
from the spillway
higher up on the mountain,
and imagine that same water
rushing by me now in Johnstown
by way of the Little Conemaugh.
Then that river joins the Stony Creek
roaring into Johnstown from the south.
Three rivers …
all overflowing their banks,
creeping up like a tide …
Sleep slips over me like a veil.
I dream a woman is watching me,
eyes earnest,
a sympathetic turn to her mouth,
but
I must be awake
and it is only a portrait of Peter’s mother
above the stove.
This must be Anna ,
I hear my own thought
as I give in to sleep.
Peter
Gone down under the waves now.
Exhaustion’s claimed me.
I dreamed of Celestia,
that she was
right here in
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