一双新鞋（3）

    “noin,”she aze to the dining room races the table in honor of my eighty-sixth birthday. the linen has been laid and soon i shall feel its crispness beneath my fingertips. the heavy silver clatters on the delicate china. the comforting sound of voices and dinner preparations lulls me and i begin to caress the smooth, cool leather of rebecca’s neo.  ago. arden on that scorching3 afternoon in that relentless summer of 1935.

    “missus, say, missus!”

    the husky voice startled me and i turned quickly. the man at the fence , hardly tged, tired, solitary men pass by the house from the rail yards nearby, men off the freights, men moving about the country, looking for  over the outdoor tap. i had just filled three pails of arden and had set them to reat gulps, s slo the back of his neck. “that feels good,” he said, by  over him  in the sun.

    “have you any arden?”

    some garden! the bean and tomato plants struggled to survive in ground that  around, before shaking my head.

    rass and placed his head on folded arms, i felt his tiredness and despair. a sudden tightness caught at my throat. he could be my son, i thought. he looks as young as alice. i knery. ive him? the icebox held so little: some milk, a knob of butter, and a fena for aice’s supper.</p>

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