Yesterday’s letter from Valerie was troubling. She had enthused to her older sister about a new gown of billowy satin and organza – and of the young man she met at a ball.
She’s so flighty, so impressionable, thought Norah. How could they be sisters? Norah plans ahead, is more cerebral.
That afternoon, deep in thought, she follows her own path, meandering into the heart of autumn as the wind blows fall foliage off the trees. There’s a chill in the air.
When the leaves turn red and gold is a time to think of practical things, Norah mused. For squirreling away, for looking ahead to long nights, and making sure you’ll have a thick comforter to snuggle under.
She wishes Valerie were more grounded, looked ahead and prepared.
“Oh well,” she tells herself, “She is Mama’s problem, and far away.”