“It was a brilliant spring morning, the day before Easter and the sun still low beyond the house and filtered through the trees. I squinted my eyes and the light through the branches broke into star points, novas, flashes. From there you couldn’t see that the garden was gone, it’s grapestake fence torn down a few years back and hauled off by the Mexican workers. It was a lot of wood, and they piled it behind the barn. I plowed the garden under myself, and planted grass to let the lawn drift away from the house as far as the edge of the apple trees.

Tuber roses bloomed in the brick planter at the edge of the patio. Yellow streaked with faded red. It stood there to remind me of Easter. Yellow and red, so beautiful, I almost stopped to pray. No wonder the sky was clear, the jays dropping from the power lines behind the house to the lawn where Dad had thrown out seeds. In all the years I remember, it never rained in Cortina on Easter. Not even a sunshower, hardly a cloud. I went on past the roses, and into the house by the screen porch door, careful not to let the spring slam it shut.”

© by Kyle Kimberlin, 2004: novel in process