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Show 227 But the tree in Aunt Peggy's front lawn had a resilency, a toughness, about it; for all its stunted growth, the set of its branches, the gnarled trunk, attesting to its tenacity. Now, it did not seem much larger than when Sharon had been a child; it had never been large enough to really climb. But she had grabbed the ends of the branches, she had been just tall enough to stretch upward to reach them, and had bent them down, close to the ground, and had suddenly released them, so they whipped back upward into the sky. Now, as they pulled up against the curb, she could feel those branch ends in her hands. And she suddenly wanted to jump from the car and once again take them in her hands. The house itself had been repainted, the same grey with blue trim as before. But the roof was discolored, in obvious need of repair, with large brownish patches in the white roofing. The roof had not been so discolored the last time she had seen it-had it been three years? The time seemed very real all of a sudden-a tangible thing, almost as if it could be weighed and measured. Before they could disembark from the car, Aunt Peggy came bursting through the front door, down the sidewalk, opening the car door and hugging Robbie-her large face smiling. And the three years suddenly vanished. "God, it's good to see you!" She hugged Sharon, who was surprised at the strength in her arms. Her hair had been done in a beauty parlor, it was shorter, in tight curls around her face-naturally curly, like Sharon's-it had been tinted a lighter blond than her natural color. And in her strong arms, Sharon felt herself aglow, the old pull of childhood tugging at her breast. "You're looking chipper," Robbie said. |
