Frana washes dishes,
and Father rocks in his chair.
The room smells of sweet tuber stew.
I place my hand on Father’s shoulder.
He reaches his calloused hand through mine,
and a smile flits on his lips.
He smells of goats.
“Are you sure you don’t need help, Frana?”
“No. I’m nearly done,” she says.
I glide my hand over the wall stones
hiding our Oracles and sigh.
“Do you feel a draft?” Frana asks.
She turns. Beyond her usually full frame,
her belly is rounded gently with child!
My shaking hand covers the swell.
My sibling presses back.
“Oh, the babe rolled!” Frana laughs.
She grows smaller and smaller
in a pinprick of light.