Willie’s walked to the village, Dottie sits darning stockings by the window, her nimble fingers pulling and pushing the yarn through the cloth. Sunlight brightens up the length of her lap, warms her fingers, brings touch of Heaven. She pauses, holds needle in mid sew, watches a butterfly, Red Admiral, flitter by the window’s square. If only Willie was there. He was up early, up and out in the garden’s span, digging and planting, she watching, taking in his moving arms, his steady hands. She still feels the damp place his kiss gave, on forehead above her brow, feels it still, anyhow. She resumes the darning of her brother’s cloth, the sharp needle pulled and pushed, the fingers holding firm, the in and out, of the narrowing

hole, the closing up. She looks at the trees, the slight sway of arms, the green covered fingers, how she and Willie sat beneath by the near shore, sheltered by tall willows, the sea view soaking their eyes, his hand in hers, birdsong, distant ship on horizon’s brow. If only Willie was here, was here now.

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