Free Guernica by Dave Boling

blindness made her special to them. That might cause them to have doubts about the decision they
     made to relinquish the warmth of others. She knew that when people met her, she would not be forgotten. But she couldn’t say
     that to the sisters because it might make them feel as if they had been forgotten once they went behind the walls.
    And then they wrestled. Pillows were hurled and blankets flew.
    “Hey, that’s no fair . . . you’ve got to close your eyes,” Alaia said.
    And Miren did, out of fairness.
    The wrestling was a welcome connection to them both, an excuse to feel another body like theirs but not theirs; to judge themselves
     against another by touch, size, weight, strength; to feel the softness of another’s hair and skin. Two young girls could not
     just reach and touch each other in this way, but in the guise of playfulness, all was appropriate. Alaia started by grabbing
     a nearby foot and shaking it, and Miren tentatively joined in after it was clear that wrestling with a blind girl was not
     only tolerated but appreciated.
    As they calmed, Alaia became absorbed by Miren’s quilt, feeling the varied textures of the cloth squares, the wool, the linen,
     the cotton, and one of velvet, all held together with tufted yarn knots. She slept under a plain wool blanket at the convent.
    Nearing sleep, Miren asked, “What’s it like not having a family?”
    Alaia didn’t answer for long enough that Miren assumed she hadn’t heard. As Miren started to doze, Alaia answered softly,
     “Nobody touches you.”
    When Alaia readied to be returned to the convent in the morning, Miren placed Floradora in her hands.
    “She’s yours now,” Miren said solemnly. “You need her company more than I do.”
    Alaia hugged the doll and touched her face.
    That morning Miren had removed the beads, leaving only horizontal stitching where her eyes had been.
    The server was in her early forties and out of the practical range of their affections, but her prominence in the foredeck
     attracted the younger, flirtatious members of the crews to the Seaman’s Café in Lekeitio. Unseasoned at romantic nuance, they
     peppered her with suggestive references and were dealt rejection with a playful ridicule that was a part of the game. It served
     as courting practice as they tested tactics they could use when the target was an actual marriageable female. But most were
     more familiar with casting wide nets rather than the subtle use of baits.
    “I could make you the happiest waitress in Lekeitio,” Dodo said.
    “What, would you leave a tip?”
    Dodo winked and pursed his lips as for a kiss.
    “You, my friend, smell too much like my husband,” she said. “And you are far too eager. Women can smell desperation—even on
     a fisherman.”
    She turned and fingered the back of Miguel’s hair. “But you, the quiet one, you will break many hearts in time.”
    Dodo groaned loudly, punching his brother’s shoulder, envious of the waitress’s comment.
    “You,” she said to Dodo, “would be wise to learn from this one.”
    Miguel flushed with embarrassment, an emotion he knew was unknown to Dodo.
    “She’s just kidding me to make you jealous,” Miguel said.
    Dodo laughed at his naïve brother.
    “These are not the waters for finding women, Miguel,” Dodo rationalized.
    Miguel had witnessed Dodo’s brief and doleful history with the girls of Lekeitio. He was playful as a pup until he began breathing
     fire with his politics. His emotional elasticity wore down relationships quickly.
    The waitress returned with a basket of bread, putting a conciliatory hand on Dodo’s shoulder. Misreading the gesture—which
     was typical for him—he returned it with an arm around her hips. She slapped his hand with enough force to cause others to
     turn. Dodo laughed overly loud to imply it had all been a joke. But the message was received.
    Rebuked, Dodo moved on to his second-favorite topic, the politics of Spain, and lectured his younger