Peter sleeps peacefully now.
After mumbling and tossing at first,
he went still under the heaviness
of desperate sleep.
I rock myself in his mother’s chair.
When I open my eyes
to the early light,
Peter is staring at me.
I sit up, surprised.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask,
hoping his answer will prove him to be lucid.
His voice is unsteady: “This must be heaven, right?
I thought it would look different.
Clouds at least.
How else could you be here,
sleeping in my sitting room?”
“Railroads.
And one very large ship.”
He raises one arm,
sinewy,
veined.
I go to him,
hold his hand.
“I’m glad you’re here”—he looks around—
“I thought I was dreaming.”
“Your letters stopped. I just had to know …”
“Working double shifts to pay for doctors.
Up with him most of the night,
thinking every cough’ll kill him …
black lung,
the miner’s death.
And me, I’m just exhausted.”
“I understood as soon as I arrived.” I smooth the blankets.
“I’m sorry”—his hands stop mine—“I should have let you know.”
I sit beside him. “Now I know it was only the letters that stopped.”
Peter holds my hands to his chest. “My intentions
have not changed.
And you …
feel the same?
Since you are here?”
“Yes.” I smile and he sinks back into the pillows.
He sits up again. “Well, how can you be here—
do your parents know?
Are they alive?
They must’ve been lost at sea!”
“They made an arrangement—
a choice that would force me into a life
that I would find intolerable.” I look away.
He gently guides my chin
until our eyes meet again. “A match?”
“To a half-wit braggart.”
“Celestia!”
“I had to escape it and I had to find you
before you lost your love for me.”
Peter kisses my hands. “That’ll never happen.”