To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

Yet what of love? That is another, more solid thing; it is not tricked by fine lights or spirits. It is more of earth and time, like a river-turned stone.

I will let this grief sharpen my gaze, polish and shape it until it becomes a magnifying lens through which I might yet see.

I would place all my faith in something mysterious and joyful and surprising, even if it fails me in the end. And

I am not sure romance, real or imagined, is even the root of my envy. Rather it is the thought that she should be on such an adventure with my husband, while I wait for any scrap of news and go with none.