My husband and youngest left us for the car, but we’d stayed to walk the fairy circle, one direction, then the other, making sure to leave some small thing: a seashell, a stone. Our American jackets sluicing rain. When my oldest said, I’ll be right back—I waited, because where could he actually go. Maybe creatures were watching, from the dark, between the low, gnarled trees, maybe just history or time…eventually, there was only the rain, and my own heart, hammering—for a moment, I didn’t know if I was lost, or he was—my firstborn. Long ago, before he was born, I learned to give over my life—to listen, to watch, to ready myself. To tend. I forget or distance, dismiss, what might be happening to me. Finally, he reappeared the way a doorway might: knees muddy, face pale—my voice, my hands, ran over him: Where were you? What happened? I mean my focus was with the child, returning and then, again, with the child returned.