It was growing dark before we all walked sleepily back to house. I suppose we had some sort of supper. I suppose there must have been a surface tidying-up, for the house on Sunday looked clean and orderly enough. The strange thing was , we didnt mention that day afterward. I flt a little embarrassed .Surely none of the others had been as excited as I. I locked the memory up in that deepest part of me where we keepthe things that cannot be and yet they are.
The years went on, then one day I was hurrying about my kitchen in a city apartment, trying to get some work out of the way while my three-year-old insistently cried her desire to go park ,see duck.
I cant go! I said. I have this and this to do, and when Im through Ill be too tired to walk that for.
My mother , who was visiting us , looked up from the peas she was shelling ,Its a wonderful day,she offered,Really warm , yet theres a fine breczc . Do you remember that day we flew kites?
I stopped in my dash between stove and sink . The looked door flew open and with it a rush of memories. Come on.I told my little girl. Youre right , its too good a day to miss.
Another decade passed. We were in the aftermath (余波)of a great war. All evening we had been asking our returned soldier, the youngest Patrick Boy, about his experiences as a prisoner of war. He had talked freely , but now for a long time he had been silent . What was he thinking of - what dark and horrible things?
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