Rebecca sometimes forgets that she once had another name. There are lines at the corners of her eyes, now, and the skin of her hands is dry and rough in places. The tips of her fingers are used to stitches in linen and wool, have forgotten what it feels like to touch rough bark, to skim through water, to hold the paddle of a canoe between them.
Mother, I'm going out.
Be careful, Thomas. Fear for her boy grates suddenly at her heart – these woods are dangerous, there are wolves between the trees he will insist on climbing, there are waterfalls that are oh so easy to slip and slide and plummet off, there is the wind which whispers in your ears, calls to you, begs you to remember. Once upon a time, of course, there was a willow tree with whispers of leaves, pale green, a silent river in midnight blue, otters and eagles and sycamore trees and a man with eyes the color of the sky…
But enough.
She looks down at her sewing. The stitches have been ripped out.