Poug has told me so much about it that I can't even be sure the memories are mine or her own words making that picture in my head.
Poug turns over in bed and says, "What's wrong with you."
Poug has never lost her grown up teeth, could never be ugly even if she fell off a truck flat down on her face.
When from the living room below Faye raps the top of the broomstick against the floor of the sleeping porch, we crawl into our beds and hush, crushing our pillows under our heads, and Poug and I whisper until our eyes grow heavy.
It is July when I wake one night in the silence, my whole body suddenly listening in the night, and when I realize Poug's gone, I am suddenly taut with that stillness, like that time I was reaching for Dolorie's glass above me on the kitchen counter, the glass emptied of sweet tea, ice cubes cloistered and glistening at the bottom, in the sunlight.