She steadily works the beads over with her left hand, doing laps around her right wrist. It’s early, or late, and still dark. The full moon hangs low; it’s all the light she needs. She didn’t sleep much this night nearly ended, mind racing. Maybe – yes, perhaps, now – it’s possible. All things seem possible. This same night, two years prior, all that seemed possible was about to crash down around her. But there is comfort in the lowering moon, and the beads, and the quiet of the dark. A welcome heaviness, accompanied by breath. Maybe an hour’s sleep after all.
caroline ridgway 