Sunday afternoons, she rolled off her stockings to cross beams girding my grandfatherâ€™s barn. She was fifteen and longed for something in the dark leafy boughs she couldnâ€™t quite reach. Balancing on a hand-hewn rafter was nothing more than stepping out on a limb and the humid hour held its breath, the twittering sparrows fell silent. Dust shivered suspended as she passed through shafts of light austere as a coronation. This was before she coiled her braids under a covering and took her place in a kitchen with its slick checkered floor and the tick of a clock she had to rewind. For one immortal summer, girders hung taut as strings her steady feet could strum.