The morning we brought Nora Ruth home, Mara carried her into the garden where Owen had proposed.
The brass bells still hung from the trees.
Lavender grew beneath them.
Mara sat holding her daughter.
“She’s opening her eyes,” I said.
“What color?”
“Gray.”
“Like mine?”
“Yes.”
Mara smiled.
Then said:
“Describe the sky.”
My throat tightened.
For years, Owen had described the world to her.
Now she was asking me.
I looked upward.
Gold.
Pink.
Burning orange across the sunrise.
“It looks like the inside of a candle flame.”
Mara laughed softly.
“That was Owen’s favorite.”
“I know.”
Then she said:
“There’s something else.”