And Alys came to understand why women would seek refuge on a bridge and she drew their youth, their pain, their aging. Their existence and worth given shape by a virgin who birthed a child. She drew the lives they’d given up in the microscopic study of a flower, a vase, a cup, a plate, a piece of fabric—lace intricate and fine—darned sheets on a bed, a sketchbook in the corner, a fine lock of baby hair hidden between two pages. On and on and on, she drew the details of undetailed lives. Of forgotten women who once may have wanted so much more.
