Closed for Winter

by Georgia Blain

  I look up at him and I can see the delight in his face. I never thought I would, he tells me. But I have.

  He has, and it is more than I had ever envisioned.

  It is beautiful, I say, my voice quiet in the stillness. Just beautiful.

  We sit at the table and we are awkward.

  I am sorry, he says again. So sorry, and I know he is and I know he does not know what else to say. I wanted to give you these, and I take the envelope. If you don’t want them, I will understand.

  I know what they are before I open them. I can feel them beneath my fingers and I take them out, all of them, holding them in my hand. I want to ask him if he thinks she might have run away, got on a bus and just gone, unable to cope with all that was never said, turning her back on us, all of us, but I do not say those words out loud. He does not know. I do not know. We will probably never know, and I lay the prints out, one by one, across the table.

  This is my sister.

  This is Frances.

  And at the end I put my photo next to her. I take it out from my bag, and I lay it down with the others.

  Two young girls. Awkward, thin and misplaced.