Isola

by Allegra Goodman

Walking there, we turned our faces to the sun, and we saw gnats and mayflies. How like ourselves, said Madame D’Artois. How frail every living thing. Roses shatter; winged insects live a single day. She said, Do not depend on anything but providence, and she told us parables of those I called the deadly virtues—patience, humility, and diligence.

Filling these packets and wood boxes, I felt a joy I had not known before. It was not love, and it was not comfort, nor was it mastery or beauty, but it was usefulness.

“She was beautiful and good,” said Damienne, “and she was my sweet mistress, but you are my child.”

The autumn weather was still clear, the colors of the island royal. I scattered gold leaves upon her grave, and there I knelt and prayed to the Virgin. “Holy Mother, welcome her to heaven—she who was my mother.”

This was my prayer. Not for rescue or escape, but for my soul, which had been sick. I gazed at waves rising and shattering, and this was my resolve—to remember myself as God remembered me.

“Those who know their faults are truly wise,” the Queen said. “And those who have endured the worst have most to teach. Do not say, then, that your story does not deserve retelling. Tell me, rather, how I might reward you for offering what you have learned.”