A Wild Winter Swan

Oh, if necessity is the mother of invention, who is the Father? Fantasy.

No one stood nearby to look down at the girl in the bed and witness whether or not she really existed.

The loneliness she felt was so keen it was almost elegant.

Something plays a part in survival, something you don’t understand. Omertà, the men call it. Honor, says the military. Grace, says the priest. What do the women call it?” That wasn’t rhetorical; she was waiting to have the question returned to her. “What do the women call it?” asked Laura. “Despair,” said Nonna. “Despair can be stronger than faith or hope. When you have no faith and no hope, something else mounts up in you. It’s just—animal anger. I mean when all the other blessings fail you, the animal sense of desperation uses you. It stands you up and walks you across the room and puts you on a boat and gets you to America. And

but not what it meant to her. Not how it felt. Because stories, maybe, were drafts of reality based on feelings.

Too much truth got in the way.

What was a miracle but an enchantment conferred for someone's good?

Everyone wants to get something, everyone has something to give.

A bird in the house is a sign someone will die soon.

Your faith can inoculate you against despair.

But she knew better than to trust the false hope of the holidays.

Besides, thought the girl, what miracle didn't look ridiculous while it was happening? If a miracle was ordinary, it would be like, just, so what?

Life is a challenge, Laura Maria Ciardi, You have to meet it.