After "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society"

If I could ask the wind to make me fly, I’d sail over clouds and sea to your tiny island, drifting down slowly to land on the hills, lying in grass before running to find you. Where would you be? The sun's in the dewdrops and you’re on the path, bucket in hand on your way to the well. Flying on wind made me pale as a pearl so I stand back to watch you where you cannot see. The jumper I knit you has bunched at the collar, needs to be washed, yet I’d lay down and die that you’ve worn it every day. How young you are, how soft your skin. In 50 years I’ll come and tell you, “How good you are, how deep your eyes,” for in aging we are better than we were, if we can love. And how I love you as you bend to clasp a rope upon a pulley, looping hook to pale as the bucket is lowered down into dark; happy bucket to gather your drink, your wash, your life. The sun comes in full and you wipe down your brow, hoisting out your sloppy bounty, gripping strong then walking again with me at your heels. “Sing us a song,” I would ask all the birds, and the tree canopies are more chatter than leaves. You tilt your head to smile at this wonder and I stroke your hair, though you do not see me. “Make us a show,” I’d say to the flowers, and all the way home there are blossoms and petals and bright, tender buds. You set down your bucket to touch a pink dalia, grazing her petals with tenderest pads. “I love you,” I tell you, but you only sigh, taking the bucket and touching your heart, swirling the feel of the tight woolen stitches that made my hands ache, though I never did mind.