Like Dust, I Rise

by Ginny Rorby

We never know when we’re doing something for the last time. If we knew, we might stop to appreciate the moment.”

“That was my Farmerette uniform when I was in the WLA.” She grins. “The Women’s Land Army.” She clicks her heels and salutes me. “Don’t be a slacker; be a picker or a packer.”

You can’t imagine what it’s like to be valuable and valued—as a woman.”

I can’t help but wonder, if we knew in advance how terrible each loss would feel, would we risk loving anything ever again.