When Dorothy Jane was five she knocked over the kerosene lamp. The table started on fire. The entire house, one charred massawash down the river valley. The cat followed her, drifted home, draped across the grate, awaiting her return. Folded together in hay, dropped back, staring through cracks, under hip roof. Later the dike broke, flooded the land, flooded the entire town. Alma, Nebraska, a lost city. Concrete foundation, the only thing remaining.
Dorothy Jane moved on. Teacher’s college. Sorority life. Kappa Delta. Candle passed around the circle. The white rose of beauty/the emerald of truth/our honored kappa delta/the pearl of our youth/friendships of sisters forever we’ll be/spirit of love we have known in our own KD. Song ends. Dorothy Jane holds the candle. She is married in the next month.
