OCR Text |
Show house/ 4-01 And then our circle would dissolve. We'd race around the pasture with the horses, or stop to dip our fingers in the chilly stream - watching for trout and water skaters - or stop to stare as the bonfire surged and crackled. And then we'd all be running again to keep the smell of cooking food from our gnawing stomachs as it filtered through the pungent burning leaves. And then all the mothers would come out, babies perched on their hips, each stopping to talk a moment with my father as he pierced stray leaves with his pitchfork, returning them to the fire. And it seemed almost too soon, although we were ravenous, when the flames began to smoulder and lick across the ashy stubble of the circle. We'd return to our personal points of latitude, squinting as the evening wind stung our eyes with tendrils of earth-smelling smoke, waiting for the black and silver shapes to cool. Then we'd eat without salt or butter, needing only the seasoning of charred leaves and smoke and the sharp bite of the evening wind to make it the finest of feasts. But as I sat on the balcony, I was ail-too-aware that) it east was another life. TheAPasture had, become a subdivision. The stream had been corseted in cement viaducts and laid underground. Since my father had sold it, the white house had been converted to a rest home, where the occupants sat in wheel chairs, heavy blankets across their laps, watching listlessly as the leaves fell. |