Early morning sunshine highlights orange wood of two stumps wrapped in charcoal bark at the base of the group of tall sassafras trees. Only dry brown leaves and brittle branches, lying beyond the silver chain-link fence, remain of trees threatening potential damage as they leaned toward the house at precarious angles. Only scattered solitary birds singing briefly in the distance perk Abby’s ears as she stands motionless, black nose twitching in the fresh cool air. Mom and I sit quietly on the white plastic bench. We just look as mom talks about sixty-five years in the same house, and how the house had been moved it in 1979, years after Wallace Street’s two-lane blacktop was replaced by the four-lane highway. She smiles as she talks of my brother being able drive his 4x4 on the three acres before the trees and thick scrub brush took over the property and now hides the gulley. But for now, we joyfully observe floating gray white clouds stacked like large flat stones defying blue sky gravity. Peace.
Posted on: Wed, 14 Aug 2013 16:30:11 +0000
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