Where the Lost Wander

by Amy Harmon

It is the suffering of love. Every parent feels it. It is the suffering of being unable to shield or save. It is not love if it doesn’t hurt.”

“The pain. It’s worth it. The more you love, the more it hurts. But it’s worth it. It’s the only thing that is.”

He’s also said, more times than I can count, “Leave too early, and you’ll freeze and starve on the plains; leave too late, and you’ll freeze and starve in the mountains.”

It was Daniel who convinced our families to sell their farms in Illinois and strike out for California. It was Daniel who persuaded us all and Daniel who would never see it. Three months after we were married and a few days shy of my nineteenth birthday, he took sick and was gone in a week.

He seems to know John Lowry well and introduces him as his nephew.

Regardless of their possessions or their position, it seems everyone has the same dream. They all want something different than what they have now. Land. Luck. Life. Even love.

Every other waking moment is spent walking or working.

transcendence

“That’s where your mind goes when your hands are drawing,” Ma explains. “It’s a world, a place, beyond this one. It’s what could be.”

“Put your energy into rising above the things you can’t change,

“You are very stubborn.” “Says the man who loves mules.” I shrug.

Ma gave Wolfe life, but he is mine in a way that I can’t put into words. Maybe it is all the time I spend caring for him or the responsibility I feel for him. Maybe it’s a continuation of the love I have for Ma, who is too weak and tired to mother him alone, but he is mine, and my arms feel empty when he’s not in them.

She turned to Proverbs then and read a scripture, a version of which she made me and my sisters memorize. “These are the things the Lord hates. A proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans. Feet that are swift in running to evil, a false witness who speaks lies, and one who sows discord among brethren.”

Grief and joy are complicated. Love and loss too, and I know tears aren’t always what they seem.

“They took Naomi,” Webb cries, lifting his shattered eyes to mine. “They took her away.”

I don’t know what to do. Winifred. William. Warren. The Binghams. The boys. Naomi.

I watch as my wagon pulls out, lurching from side to side, Wyatt prodding the oxen along with his father’s staff, Webb and Will staring back at me, framed by the oval opening in the wagon cover.

“Is your woman strong?” Washakie asks, still gentle. “Yes,” I whisper. “She is very strong.” “Then we will go and get her.”

It’s been five days, and it feels like five minutes. It feels like five years. Like five hours, like five decades. A part of me is waiting, and a part of me is dead.

I tell her I am trapped where the lost wander, and I don’t see any way out. I will never be able to leave. Not without Wolfe. And he is not mine anymore.

For a little while, walking and talking with Lost Woman, I felt close to Ma too, like she walked beside us, listening.

“Ma said transcendence is when we rise above the things we can’t change,”

“We can’t change what is. Or what was,” John says slowly. “Only what could be.” Transcendence is a world, a place, beyond this one. It’s what could be.

“The mother came for her son,” I whisper, stunned. Overcome. “Yes. And now Naomi can go home.”

Washakie predicted people would write about him in their books, and I’m just one person making that prediction a reality.

For me, Lost Woman captures the spirit of this book, the struggles of all women, all mothers, in the landscape of 1850s America.