The warm breezes of an almost-summer afternoon rustle through leafy stalks in the tiny garden outside their bedroom window. June sunshine pours in through red grid frames, casting its rays across a woman’s worn, bare feet. Bent over the side of the bed, arms resting on her handstitched quilt, Lizzie’s quiet laboring form breathes through another wave of labor. It’s Sunday afternoon, neighbors are gone away, and Aravah and I are here waiting with them in this little house on a hill, at the very end of a quiet gravel road. Beyond her bent and weary form, the hills and valleys stretch to the horizon, cattle graze, an old draft horse swishes his tail and gives an occasional whinny, birds call, and the clouds are soft and puffy against a deep blue sky.
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