Читать книгу River House - Sally Keith - Страница 9

1.

How do you picture the shape of a year in your head

Is a question my grandmother often asked.

The jog ends at the point where we watch the sun disappear.

We drag sticks in the sand to spell out our names.

To myself I write: Happy Birthday.

The few trees before the beach in silhouette.

The sky is red, the boats in the small harbor, docked.

On the Rappahannock my grandparents moved to retire.

As they aged, my mother rented herself this house.

Because the land is the same level as the water

The house sits high up on stilts. At night, from bed,

The stars through the windows burn a circuit of lights.

It all depends on where you start. A year is a circle,

If not a point around which experience spirals.

Because our mother is gone, we do not need the house.

We tell ourselves this. Soon we will clean out inside.