Julia Medearis

Michael walked downhill and joined her in the radish patch. They worked side by side pulling weeds, and putting the weeds in a communal pile. Birds sat in the trees above their heads and sang out songs for them in the language of flying creatures. Julia paused in her weed pulling to scrutinize his work but found no fault. Michael was pulling out the weeds properly, she saw, by the roots. During another pause later in the afternoon, she spoke to him without raising her head, “When I was suffering so much, after I lost our baby, you had taken me to Jonathan’s house and one day I was walking along the beach. At one time the tide came up and crashed along the shingles and trapped me high up on a rock. This was very dangerous and I stood up against a wall and the water started to pull at my feet. Then I saw that you were watching me from above, though you thought you were hidden. So I stayed on the ledge and waited for the tide to pass because I knew I was safe.” Michael said nothing but pulled his share of weeds in a steady, silent rhythm. Julia continued, “Who would have known, when I was such a little girl, hating the world, that I could grow up to feel so much love and trust. Who could know?” She spoke with a touch of outrage and astonishment in her voice, with her head raised as if she spoke to the birds above their heads, and they the birds continued their singing as if yes indeed they understood but in the singing alone they expressed the understanding.