She finds comfort in cause and effect and in the soft quilts that she piles on the hammock that hangs from the eaves of her covered porch. The quilts are old enough to be smooth, and they are perfect because of their imperfect stitches and irregular patches of color.
If the cicadas weren’t humming there would be quiet, but she doesn’t mind their constant rhythm. The heat makes her languid, and she lets her mind think about small things. As she moves her body slightly to rock the hammock, she thinks about the power of her body: her hands make good food, and her body makes her husband happy, and grows beautiful children. Like a cat she can stretch in the nest she’s made; the weeds are pulled, the lawn is mowed, and there is sweet tea in a glass pitcher on the kitchen counter. When she closes her eyes there are no frightening images flashing red; the only colors that are painted in her mind are the peach, turquoise, and daffodil yellow that are on the quilts that cover her completely.