A light breeze, building. Your mother 's arm and mine entwine behind your head. The grass is green, the sky is blue, the house is white, and apples on the hill are ripe for picking. We pile out into the deep grass. You and I make for the apple trees, beyond the single fenced-in grave, above the farmhouse.
Puffy clouds pass behind the tree.
When I was a kid, this is how we did it, I say, throwing ground apples up, knocking off new ones for us. We pack our pockets and eat right there. These are good. The others have discovered other sights and gather in their own amenable knots around the boy. We meet them at the grave site down the hill.