I’m making a new patchwork now,
pieces of the lives of strangers uphill:
part of a roof,
half of a barn door,
other planks,
all washed down from Mineral Point,
or South Fork, maybe.
They look like treasures compared to nothing.
I drag them over to where I think our house used to be
and assemble
a makeshift shelter
for the children to toddle in and out of,
to keep the rain off when we sleep.
My knuckles are split,
my palms full of splinters.
I picture a family in Johnstown below
using pieces of our house for the same purpose—
or maybe even
airing out a shred of my quilt?
But I’m not mourning it.
I don’t even want it back.
The story has changed.
I see us for what we are:
a child bride
with babies one after the other after the other,
too close together,
and a husband more than twice her age,
who loves his family
and loves his work,
but
who might not have a choice
about entering this new life,
this
consuming
public
life.
Alone.
I had decided to share Joseph
if I must,
but,
truth is,
he belongs to them now.
They are the ones to decide
how much to share him
with me.
Not a story I should like to tell,
nor a quilt I should like to make.