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I wonder why my father lies about the hay. He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true.
As soon as she says this, I realise she is just like everyone else, and wish I was back at home so that all the things I do not understand could be the same as they always are.
The breeze, crossing the rim of the bucket, whispers sometimes as we walk along. Neither one of us talks, the way people sometimes don’t when they are happy – but as soon as I have this thought, I realise its opposite is also true.
