Maeve

Tails, dozens and dozens of ribboned kite tails, swirling and whipping in the wind on the high prairie. The church people bring me here to watch the kites. They spread a red checkered picnic blanket on the hot, spiky grass, and prop me up on a straw tick cushion with my hands folded in my lap, a quilt pulled up to my chest. My cold stocking feet are uncovered; I no longer wear shoes since I cannot any longer walk. I dare not complain, for there are children who are halt and lame, and will be that way their whole blessed lives. I have already my life well behind me, beautiful shining moments when I could walk and work and care for my babies. I smile thinking of it all now— the countless days I hung the wash in the sun, scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees, cooked for company with a baby on my hip and my other one clinging to my skirts. These are the memories that I hold onto, now that my husband is gone on to glory and my children are doctors and lawyers in New York State with grandchildren of their own. My good work, my housework. It warms me to think of it now. The church people, they see my smiling face and they smile, too. They think I am pleased with the blue sky and the clouds. They are good to me, though they believe I am feeble-minded and simple and easily pleased by colorful kite tails and squealing children. I am not. My own children are gone, and to see these things raises a bitterness in my throat. But I smile, and am glad. Not the absent, childish smile of a dull old woman, but the contented and sad smile of someone who has who has known and lost a great deal of love.