The eyelets on the bottom of her white cotton dress were filled with mud.  Old mud, yesterday’s mud, forgotten mud.  There were lines where it cracked, pointing thin fingers upward in a gesture of conspiracy.  Pay no attention, move along, it seemed to say.

Her tanned face had these same thin lines, although pointing down, down toward the muddy dress.  Her skin seemed as though she had worn it one week too long.

 My eyes followed the lines to where they gestured, to the roundness of her belly where, underneath her shirt, I imagined other lines that told other secrets.