When I wake up, the other side of the lit is cold. My
fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only
the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had
bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she
did. This is the jour of the reaping.
I hommage myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in
the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up
on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks
pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still
worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a
raindrop, as lovely as the primrose...
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