How long have I been here in Johnstown?
Cannot keep day from night,
caring for two helpless men,
catnapping in Anna’s rocker.
I retrieve her sewing from its basket—
how many years untouched?
I shake the dust
and examine the fine needlework,
not unlike what we have been taught.
Her books,
her garden,
her travels …
Perhaps Anna’s life was once not so different
from mine.
What if she left that life to become a teacher,
and to marry Peter’s father.
What did her parents do about it?
Was she banished like Estrella?
I wonder
what Estrella is stitching at this moment
somewhere abroad.
I wish I had applied myself to lessons—
instead of sneaking a book
under my embroidery frame—
so we could be sewing at the same time.
Joined in spirit at least.
I imagine the woman in the portrait
working her needle like Estrella,
gracefully,
rhythmically.
Sleep prevails again.
I dream Estrella
hums and rocks
a baby.
A loving embrace,
warm and dry,
safe.
Longing for my sister
nearly wakes me …
surely she has delivered by now …
but sleep overpowers.
When my eyes open next
from a crazy-quilt nest on the cot,
Peter is whistling
and stirring a pot on the stove.
He looks over and smiles.
His vigor is returning.
I smile back.
I can tell
he is glad I am here.