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Show 245 the very imagination of the girls. How rich that imagination! yes, the very essence of childhood itself. She straightened from it, as if she could not indulge too deeply in its mystery. For it was, she sensed, her own past imagination which she was also touching. The foundation, the cornerstone, of her own self. It made her light-headed, straightening up, perhaps it was the bourbon. She needed to keep walking. Around the side of the house she wandered, through the gate, which was standing ajar. It was a rickety gate, not worth much really. The only time she had seen it closed, that she could remember, was when Robbie and Lynn had run away from Billy and her; they had tied the gate shut with a rope, in a group of multiple knots. She had not minded, she would have been content to stay in the back yard anyway, playing horses with Billy. But he had been enraged, that they would exclude him like this, and attacked the knots with a cold fury. How old had she been? She must have been seven or eight at the time. She came around the side of the house, and there was the tree. Well, it had grown some alright. More than she had first thought when they had pulled up to the curb earlier in the day. But she did not have to stretch now to grasp the branches. Somehow, her growth had outpaced the tree. So that she had become larger, In proportion, than it was. She bent the branches down, testing the resilency of them in her hands. Yes, there was a life there, that old wiriness. She pulled them down further, down until they bowed-like an Indian's bow-and stepping back, released them. |