The Memory of Old Jack

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Wendell Berry. The Memory of Old Jack

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WENDELL BERRY

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Way back in Old Jack’s mind there is a hillside deep in grass, with trees scattered over it, shading it, and trees around it, and at the foot of the slope a pool of water, still, with the mottled white trunk of a sycamore reflected cleanly in it. He is standing at the edge of the field, looking out into it. He has been there a long time. And now he feels himself touched. A hand has gently grasped his shoulder. It seems to him that it must be Ben Feltner’s hand. In the touch of it there is a sort of clarity, a sort of declaration. Not many men Old Jack has known could offer themselves so openly in a touch of the hand. He looks up at Mat, who stands leaning between him and the light. His eyes dazzle.

“Is it Ben?”

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