Farthest House

Luessy bent, pulled a small weed in their path, and rubbed the dirt from her fingers on her skirt. “I don’t know what went wrong,” she continued. “I think both my children are dragging around bones. Tory is waiting to inherit this place, but those old handprints aren’t a hold on a piece of land. Not like birth string.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t mind me. I was remembering the night you were born, that’s all. Stars roaring so bright I could barely tolerate the noise. Birth and death mixed up. Nothing solid, and those stars.”

Willow knew she’d eventually have to go inside the house, and when she did, the skinny woman would be there. For comfort, she reached out and touched Friar whenever his back and forth trotting brought him close enough. She also let her eyes take sidelong glances at Mémé’s back and the bump larger than her own. “How come you look like that?”

“Life grows a woman down. One day, she’s as bowed as a spent flower. Not to worry though, that’s when she’s strongest. She loves mightily, and she creates. She’s alive here,” Luessy’s finger touched her forehead and then tapped her wool sweater over her heart, “and here. When a body curls, a woman knows it’s time to start making plans, giving away her things.”

“Why?”

“She needs the space to journey inside. The clutter’s too cumbersome.”

Willow pressed her lips together. Her mouth wanted to tell Mémé she talked funny, but the issue of Mémé’s back was more important. “How come a doctor can’t fix you?”

“There’s no hocus pocus for old age; I don’t need to be fixed.”