Читать книгу High Tide - Inga Abele - Страница 12

Granddaughter

Ieva crouches in the middle of the field and watches two giant tree stumps burn among the pile of branches. The wind has picked up and sparks fly through the air. Gran’s things are among the kindling.

Not diaries, letters, or notes—just things. Things from her final months.

The black plastic trash bags melt, split open like blistering skin, and drip into the fire. The flames lick at the dingy shoes, the warped sleeves, lace pillowcases. A mug shatters with a bang, the plastic bottles melt into puddles.

Ieva watches on as if made of stone. The fire melts her down and pours her into a different mold.

There will be nothing left when the fire burns out. Only memories.