1956

On the East side of Longford, where the streams met the sea a winding path ties together all parts of the island as if a ribbon tying a wonderful present. Hedge Parsley, Alliums, wildflowers all mixed and overgrown, reaching out over the paths with pickled fingers and vines arms. 

Anna walked alone along the cliff face, salty air whipping her hair into her eyes, blowing away folded notes in pockets, doodles with kind words of encouragement. following the streams and rivers, she makes her way home based on their noise and flow. 

The rains sweep the grassy fields in tall sheaths, walls reaching the heavens. Looking up she feels the raindrop and slide down her face, rivers with tributaries, leading forever down. 

She expects to return home to more work. More rains. Cook dinner in the cast iron pan and wash laundry for hours till her knuckles bleed and crack dry. Finnegan won't be home till eight past ten. He will be more tired than she. 

So cold for summer. So wet and dreary, grey and somber for what if the start of a lifetime. 

Lifting the small basket of food to her waist and holding the crossbody bag of leather tighter, she fights the winds, eyes half-closed, the rush of waterfalls in her ears. The bag is a bit heavier, holding a few coins and dollars well earned, well worked for. She thought she had known work. That she had considered every avenue and change life would bring. She had not. 

Limping inside the small stone cottage, she does not notice that the fire is already in the hearth. So hunger-stricken, she imagines the warm and sweet smells that float from the kitchen to be in her head. 

"Your soaked!" Finnegan exclaimed, watching the wet soldier drip melancholy onto the bedsheets as she slowly creaked open the door. 

"Your home!" she cries in delight rushing forwards, "I thought you had to work late." 

"I did. But I left early, I made dinner, you look half-starved come down." 

He is not perfect by any means, she knows this. She seems the way his sullen moods take over quick, the way his stubborn temper creates walls she cannot climb and obstacles that need not be erected. She finds him insufferable at times, an irritation. Sand in clams, he always emerges more beautiful after doubts, more loving more loyal. A friend to rely on. 

Wrapped in quilted blankets they sit before the fire, head rested on the shoulder, head on head. Half asleep, Frost, Keats, Browning, their words illuminate the night like stars, lulling and warming the innocent who toils hard for simple moments. 

The wet clothes are let out to dry beside the kitchen window, the door locked for the night. Though drowsy sleep evades grasp. Talking, talking talking, of dreams and hopes, worries and concerns, calloused hands, and grey hairs. Whispers of nightmares, of grand tales and plans. 

Anna writes five hundred words that night. She tucks them under his pillow in the morning before she leaves. Her freckles dancing a bit brighter, sunflower seeds on a beauty none seems able to reign but he. 

Summer comes in rivers of rain.