Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving?’” Will asked. “What?” I was puzzled. He never called me Margaret; what was he talking about? He smiled. “It’s a poem by Hopkins. Your father would know. ‘It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for,’” he went on. “Not me,” I told him arrogantly. “I never mourn for myself.” “We all do, Meg,” Will said. “We all do.”
