MPH

“Be sure to wear your pull-over dear, teeth in the wind this morn.”

“Yes Mom.” A kiss, a wave, the sweater of white wool sheared from sheep, spun and knitted by her mother. It hung over hips, a plain skirt covered heavy cotton stockings. Sturdy black rubber boots reached her knees. Young girls in big cities would have laughed at her.

In the small village no one referred to her as little, being lanky and lean. She stepped out the cottage door, took long strides down the gravel road, her pace four miles in under an hour. If walking on water, she would leave a wake.