Impatient With Desire by Gabrielle Burton

than mine, scrambles up through “the fireplace,” paces out the same number of steps across the roof, shovels till he reaches our snow stairs, and then we make more stairs as needed. It sounds easy, but it often takes much of the day because George can no longer shovel and we all move slower now.
    Now that Shoemaker, Smith, and Reinhardt are dead, Jean Baptiste is the only one left in the teamsters’ shelter. Many nights he sleeps on a hide in front of our fire. I think he is more lonely than afraid. Sometimes when I glance up, he is looking at me and quickly casts his eyes down. His eyes are sad, and you can read every feeling he has on his face. I would prefer to be alone, but he does not bother me. Still, it is a relief when he goes to the lake camp for a day or two.

Jan 26th 1847
    J ean Baptiste brought the sad news that Lewis Keseberg, Jr., is dead, the baby I delivered at Alcove Springs, Kansas, the day Margret Reed’s mother, Sarah Keyes, died. I pulled back the wagon cover and said, “You have a son, Mr. Keseberg. The first American born on the Trail! What a lucky boy he is!”
    In the ever-growing list of Deaths , I recorded today the pitiful short span of Lewis Keseberg, Jr., d. Jan 24th 1847 at the lake camp. The baby who leavened our grief over Sarah Keyes’s death and was a symbol of our future.
    Before I knew it, Betsey, that dashed hope of the future spun me to dashed hopes of the past.
    1831
    Our son Thomas was born Oct 1st 1830, and a more beautiful little boy you never saw. Perfect strangers comment on how bonny he is, and the more people coo at him, the more frequent his smiles, until any passerby who bends down will be greeted with a smile that even the hardest heart could not resist. With his red hair and brown eyes, he doesn’t favor anyone on our side at all, but is a template of his father.
    “If he lives,” I told Tully, “I very much desire that he have a Northern education.”
    Thomas Eustis Dozier d Sept 28th 1831 at home in Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Beloved son of Tully and Tamsen Eustis Dozier.
     
    My head down on the Bible, I felt a little tugging on my skirt, and Eliza said, “Why are you crying, Momma?”
    “I was thinking of Baby Lewis Keseberg and my little Thomas and all the children,” I said.
    She crawled up into my lap. “Poor little children,” she said.
    “Eliza, you are my comfort child in my troubles,” I said. All my children are comforts to me, but Eliza, only 3, besides being so attuned to Georgia’s moods, is almost preternaturally sensitive to others’ feelings. It is a gift that will be both blessing and sorrow for her.
    My children are alive. I have five living children to care for. What is wrong with me? I have never felt so vulnerable. What luck? What luck? I hear some part of myself calling, and the unbidden answer comes, No luck, no luck. The sorrows of the past mark us and stay in our hearts, but I must pull myself together to prevent sorrows of the future.

Personal History for the Children
    W hen I was 6, my mother died. Betsey has told me that I became withdrawn, that even Father couldn’t console me. I remember nothing of that, regrettably nothing of my mother either, except that her hands were small like mine. I can look at my hands now and see my mother’s hands turning the pages of the books she read me.
    A little over a year later, Father married Hannah Cogswell.
    Shortly after that country road walk with George, I invited Elitha and Leanna to a tea party. I used my best rose-patterned china cups, and served sweets and savories. They sat erect and reserved in their Sunday dresses.
    “Do you have a picture of your mother?” I asked.
    Elitha opened the gold locket she still wears about her neck. I examined the picture of Mary Blue, a young, pretty woman with lively eyes, who died in childbirth along with the infant.
    “You both carry her face,” I said, closing the locket. “You favor your aunt Elizabeth too.”
    “Aunt Elizabeth