A Tiny Bit of Hope

Deep in the flesh of Montana where the pungent-sweet air hung like a drenched coat, there was an old vardo-wagon, lost beyond the stalks, and that’s where she appeared – no bigger than a thumb.

Before she came, there was another woman, Wallace Byrd, who lived in the small farmhouse nearby. Those who knew Wallace didn’t know her well, except for the deep creases in her skin, and the round shoulders that always seemed to sag.   They’d talk, of course – as townspeople do - and say things like: An angry, old woman – but who could blame her? – with Mister Byrd fallin’ ill and not knowin’ her in the end? 

They had forgotten that Wallace’s hair was black before it was white, and that her laughter had once filled a room.

Wallace knew a thing or two about harvesting grains, so she wasn’t worried when Mister Byrd passed on.  Still, she missed seeing his boots muddied at the door, and the way he pulled at his suspenders with round, calloused thumbs.  She missed other things too, like talking with him over Burgoo about happenings in places like New York – which they fabricated, of course, for they knew little about the outside world and much about telling stories.  Mister Byrd knew how to make Wallace come alive, and it was precisely this thought that provoked a sharp pulling in her chest and caused her to run from her house and into the old vardo. 

The wagon had been an ancestry piece, home, once, to a Romany gypsy.  But Wallace had forgotten it through the years, and it showed.  The elaborate scrollwork was hidden behind dust, and the decorative bird designs - green and gold - were cloudy.  There were streaked windows above wide, wooden shelves, and a ledge that might have been a bed.  A small desk stood, peeling, in the corner, and it was there, that a distinct feeling of being watched overcame her.  She’d spent many nights alone in the farmhouse - the blackness and wildlife, raw and unapologetic.  She was used to fear.  This wasn’t that.  Instead, she felt a warm bubbling inside of her, and then she saw the tiny face - yes, it was a face! – peeking from behind the desk.  The woman – so small she could fit into Wally’s pocket – stepped into view, a fiery burst of sparkles around her.  Her dark hair was so long it wrapped around her body, and feathered layers of emerald green tumbled past her feet as she spun into the dust, spelling out a word: Uri

“Delightful!” Wallace said, “A name!”

And Wallace tried to speak to Uri, but Uri didn’t speak, or if she did, Wallace couldn’t hear her.  So, the tiny woman responded in other ways – flits and flurries and twinkling dances, and she laughed without sound, and she twirled until she was dizzy.  Wallace found herself humming songs she thought she had forgotten.  She found herself lifted into dance, her feet light and suddenly full of movement.  When, finally, Uri tired, she drifted into Wallace’s open hand and curled into her palm.   

The next evening, Wallace gathered some items: a soap dish, a handful of cotton, a strawberry.  She placed these items into a small box, which she carefully wrapped with tissue, and headed back to the wagon to wait. 

She sat at the old desk for a long time, wiping the wood until it gleamed.  Then, the warmth began tickling her neck, and the brilliant sparkles whisked past her nose. 

“You’re here!” Wallace said, a ballooning inside of her.  “I brought a gift.”

Uri circled around the box, tugging at the tissue.  Together, they opened it, and Wallace pulled out the soap dish, placing the cotton inside of it.  “A bed.”

Uri floated above the cotton pretending to be asleep, before jumping up and clapping her hands in delight.

Wallace laughed, holding up the strawberry.  “A treat.”

Uri grabbed the strawberry – bigger than her own body – and soared through the air, nibbling at the sweetness.

 They spent the evening singing and dancing and eating in the moonlit room, until their energy finally waned and Uri sailed into her new cotton bed.

Wallace visited Uri every night after that, the seasons passing without heaviness.  And as Wallace continued to age, Uri remained young and vibrant.

When a man from town came to inspect the area, the overgrown grass and the land that might be for sale – Wallace was scared that he would see Uri, but he saw nothing much at all.  A dump, he’d said.  And Wallace saw how the words hurt Uri, who slumped into a corner.  Not a dump - someone’s home, she said.  Get out of here!  And so, the man left, muttering under his breath something about a crazy, old hag.

And while the world moved on without Wallace, sometimes a mischievous kid would stumble upon the wagon, keeping her alive with tales of the batty Wallace Byrd dancing alone in the woods.

But Wallace was happy.  She had Uri, who made her feel fresh as the flowering phlox.  She was known again.

One day, when the stalks had long rotted, and Wallace’s movements were slow, she noticed that Uri couldn’t float anymore, and that her sparkles were dull.

“What is it?” Wallace asked.

But Uri cowered into a shadow.

“It’s okay,” Wallace said.  “Rest.”

Uri nodded, wilting.

“Here,” Wallace said, opening her hand.

But Uri couldn’t rise, so Wallace lifted her and placed her into the palm of her hand, where she curled into a ball.

“Sleep now,” Wallace said.  And she watched as Uri and her sparkles trembled, then faded and disappeared into her skin.

For a moment, she saw her hand as smooth as it was on her wedding day, and the warmth enveloped her, bringing visions of dancing wheat fields glistening under the sun.

Then, Mister Byrd was standing in the New York City snow, young and smiling and calling for her.