The Calendar

I went back to the church porch alone and counted the red marks on the old calendar. There was one every twenty years, back and back, and beside each red year, in faded ink, a woman's name. Not a village woman. Each name was followed by the word incomer, the local word for someone who married in from outside. I found this year's red mark. The space beside it was blank, but the ink pot and pen were sitting on the ledge, waiting, and I understood the blank was waiting for me.