I watch the boy from where I am, way up above the trees. It is a summer night, so even though it’s not completely dark yet, the house is quiet.
A long lane lays out a path, straight as the spine of a book, from a paved back road to the heart of the farm. It passes six fruit trees – the boy’s friend will fall from the highest branch of the pear tree the following autumn, scraping his back. The two will run inside, both crying, one from fear, the other from branches that tried to catch him but couldn’t. The boy’s friend’s mother will snap an aloe leaf in half, rub the sticky juice on his bleeding back.
Continue reading “Hiding Under His Bed, Reading “A Wrinkle in Time””
