You sit there, hunched over, your hands clasped, resting on your chin. Your son is leaning against you, slowly sliding down the side of your body. His straw sun hat ruffles against your shoulder, and his romper puffs up with each breath. Legs spread carelessly, he watches the quiet clouds drift by. 

A willow hangs above you, the leaves droop, almost touching your bonnet. The garden is silent. Bush lilies surround your yard. Your husband moves in the background, bent over, mindlessly watering the tomatoes, plucking the ripe ones with the tips of his fingers. 

The chickens frolic together, clucking and chasing around your spread white dress as if it’s a picnic blanket. The patchy, damp lawn pokes through the hem in your clothes, the morning dew seeping through. It feels peaceful, though it still lingers with us, as we recover from the Franco-Prussian War; everything feels off. And we were one of the lucky ones. 

Our neighbors ran away. We promised to look after their beloved belongings and paintings. In a jewelry box, we found a journal that told a story no one ever knew. Something life-changing. A secret heavier than the war itself. You’re not sure what to do with it, truth be told. So you lay there, waiting for it to weigh down on you, until the atmosphere whispers the answer.