Summer was eternal. Warming to her nostalgic reverie, she relished ticking off the names of her brothers, sharers of rural mischief. Their shrine was the family barn, built of rough-hewn logs, virgin timber. It stood more than a century, until torn down to make space for a new highway. After Viet Nam.
Jersey cows, the team of mules, a trio of dogs, one for each boy.
All gone now. The brothers, full of tricks, hiding from her, up in the haymow. All gone now. One died young. Her favorite, of course.