Leaves, Carrots, Blankets, Monet

I am young, peeling carrots into the kitchen sink.

I am under her blankets. The phrase all the books I’ve ever read comes into my mind. Did I read it somewhere? It is an adjective for what we are doing.

My father is fixing the roof of a camp near Aix-en-Provence. It is late summer and my family is with him. I am 8 and he sets me to work raking leaves from a forgotten 9 holes of miniature-golf. I wake up young the next morning before the others; walking outside I smell the sea, pine-sap, and the baker must have already delivered his daily grain-sack of baguettes. I walk out to the mini-golf course and feel the pride of a job well done. The day will be warm, but isn’t yet, and I shiver as I stoop to lift a leaf that has fallen in the night.
I carry it into to the base of a tree with the patience of someone who knows they are going to leave a place, and not come back.

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