To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

could not help but hear Mother’s voice of reproval: a woman should never depend on marriage alone to keep her safe, as any number of tragedies could befall her, and we must always be prepared for the worst. Hers is the voice of experience, I know all too well, but I will not heed it. I refuse to assume a long, dreary life. I would prefer to spend every last penny, if need be, and visit every druggist from here to San Francisco; I would place all my faith in something mysterious and joyful and surprising, even if it fails me in the end. And well it might. I have sense enough to know that I might delude myself, that in all likelihood this lies beyond my ability and artistry, perhaps even beyond my faith, but then I think of Allen and know precisely what he would say—nothing is impossible. Take one step, and then another, and see where the path leads. Don’t think of the obstacles, only the way around them. Thursday, then, it is Portland. And tomorrow, I will look for birds.