“I know it.” The daugh­ter pulled a string of hairs through her fin­gers and twirled them, dropped it, and pulled again to keep twirling. He had three or four mem­o­ries, each one only slight­ly dif­fer­ent than the oth­er, he and Nancy walk­ing around the yard, Nancy wob­bling with her arms out, smiling. Her broth­er didn’t seem to care, but he had been the one to tell her about the dress in the trunk. The daugh­ter didn’t want to, but start­ed through the house. ~Sheldon Lee Compton is the author of twelve books of fic­tion, non­fic­tion, and poet­ry.