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We spent thirty years telling people the truth in small rooms.

That's what nursing is, mostly. You sit on the edge of a bed and you say the true thing kindly. Thirty-one years for Mary, thirty-three for Willow.

We met when we were seven. One desk over, second grade.

On our days off we did something strange for two women with that job. We drove around looking at clothing shops. Never bought a thing. We just wanted to see how they hung the racks, how the light came in, whether the woman behind the counter looked up when you walked in.

At forty-five we opened an account together at the credit union on Main. A little bit in every month for fifteen years. Every October we came up to Stowe and said the same word to each other. Someday.

The shop came up for sale in the spring. We were sixty years old. Everyone we knew had an opinion. We called that same afternoon.

Six years later, we're closing. Not because business is bad. The stairs to the stockroom are steeper than they were, and we spent thirty years telling patients not to argue with their own bodies. It would be poor form to start now.

We never ran a sale. Not once in six years. This is the first, and the only one there will ever be.

Everything here was chosen the way we did our rounds. Carefully, one at a time, with an actual woman in mind. Not what photographs well. What you can put on at seven in the morning and forget about all day.

Take your time. Look for the thing that makes you stop.

Mary & Willow
Stowe, Vermont