Rose lay across her bed as the evening light grew dim in her room. She didn't move. She lay perfectly still. She hadn't turned down the bed and she was on top of the quilt that her mother had made for her when she and Nick were married. Henry was in his bed in the other room.

He was fine this evening, she thought to herself. He was perfectly fine. His blue eyes sparkling. He had gone on and on about Lewis, his little friend who lives on Lexintong St. "Lewis said that in Europe there is no sun. It is black out all of the time.."

"I don't think that's right, darling," Rose had corrected him. He must have been confused about planned blackouts.

"No, mommy they do. The whole city is black. It disappears."

Rose didn't know how to explain it to him. There was no way to keep him from the war. But, the details. A light on in your house might give away where the city was. Then an inferno of bombing would ensue. Everything gone. Rose imagined Nick saying to her "Ok. Rose you don't need to share all of the details with Henry. Just explain it in a way that a kid would understand," But these details plagued her mind. Besides, what do you say to a child about the insecurity of the world?

Now, she closed her eyes and there was the comfort. There it was: comfort in just the silence. The quiet place to feel the enormity of it. And yet it was nothing really enormous; just the exhaustion from trudging through a day. Waking up, getting Henry ready. Planning the arrangements. Meeting with Mr. O'Neil. Her mind lingered for a moment. He was a curiosity. An oddity, she decided. It was probably California. Rose had never left Oregon, but she had heard about people form California. To her they were all inventors, speculators and artists. Rose thought for a moment. How naive she must seem to someone like Mr. O'Neil. Then, for some reason, she remembered one time when she had traveled to the coast when she was just a little older than Henry. She remembered the beach, but didn't recall which one it was. It was a warm day in her memory. It was such a long time ago, long before her mother had become ill. She could hardly remember it now, but she recalled her mother's long dress and the surf lapping their ankles. Rose looked around the room, up at the ceiling. She wanted to remember more about it, but she couldn't. Then her mind flashed on the little cabin they had rented. She had slept in between her parents in a small bed. She remembered the softness of her mother's rose petal skin. She thought of how vulnerable her mother had been lying there taking shallow breaths. The subtle movements beneath her closed eyelids. And her father's snore. She remembered laying in the bed between them in a hot wooden cabin, waiting for sleep to overtake her.

Rose sat up. She stood and walked to her armoir. She looked in the mirror before she opened it. She was in a long, white night shirt. Her wavy hair hung around her shoulders. Her cheeks were flush, as they so often were. That had embarrassed her as a girl. She always felt as if she were blushing. She felt shy. But, Nick had told her she was like an impressionist painting. The colors of her skin reflecting the light. Looking like brush strokes. She wondered where he had seen impressionistic paintings. It must have been a class when he was studying to be a teacher at Portland Sate. She stood and breathed in and out for a moment. She was scared. She ran her fingers over the walnut wood of the armoir door. It was a wedding gift from Nick's parents, Lilly and Daniel. She examined herself in the mirror again. Her face first, then her arms, the gown. She looked at her hand. The engangement and wedding band still there. She opened her hand and closed it. She covered one hand with the other. Finally, she pulled open the door and removed the small bundle of letters. They were in the back behind her leather gloves and hankercheifs. Sitting back there. The paper battered from the journey from Europe to Portland, from Nick to her. She yeared when she touched the envelopes. She could feel the life between them because at one time, his hand had touched the porous fibers of the paper's flesh. His muscles moved and contracted as his fingers and wrists curled and looped the cursive. "Mrs. Nicholas Miller." She sat down on the chair by the window and stared at the first letter. She picked it up and held it up to the light. She could see all those curves and lines through the paper. All those words. She didn't read them. She had never read them. She had never even opened them because once she did, he'd be all gone and she couldn't bear it. There in the letters some of Nick had been preserved, waiting for her.

***

In the dream, Nick is at the end of the hallway. He is smiling and she can recognize his scent. It belongs to her. It sends waves of longing into all of her limbs. It makes her fingers reach to touch his hair. She wants his lips on her cheek, on her stomach, whispering. Words. The words he says when he makes love to her. She can feel it and finally he is walking towards her. Her hair is down long and he lifts a hand and takes a small bit of her locks. He is playing with it, curling it between his fingers. Nick's deep blue eyes are right there, close to her. She leans in to kiss him. When she opens her eyes there is the empty blue satin room in the funeral parlor. Then she sees Mr. O'Neil leaning over a dark wood table with a pencil, erasing her sketches. He blows the rubber shavings off the table and they settle into the white pile of the carpet. He looks up at her and smiles, "all done." He says. And it echoes.

Rose opened her eyes. She was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. She put her head back down and started to cry.