Monday, September 23

One of the Things I Will Miss (Future Tense)

I HAVE KNOWN THE village for many years because my aunt & uncle lived near it and they would take me there—one or the other—to pick up some groceries & the Sunday paper whenever my brothers & I visited, which was quite often. The village has inspired the collection of short stories I am working on (now & then). It has the biggest village green in the country. I am slightly obsessed with the village.
    My train passes through it, over its rickety railway crossing and out again. Just before the village—coming from London—is a large farmer’s field. The land is very flat and one can see far into the featureless distance.
    My train passes through at approximately eighteen-forty-nine.
    At that time, on these recent days, the sun is at a most flattering angle; it bows down over the south-facing field before it dies altogether.
    Through the entanglement of evening cloud the sun may be viewed, though not for too long, by squinted eyes that, afterwards, chase the sun’s ghost around the back of one’s eyelids.
    So I sat up and took notice as we passed through. The colours that reached out over the recently overturned fields were red and orange and gave no quarter to natural hues; they smothered everything, making it hypnotically resplendent. The farmhouse stood alone; a typical box of a house with the usual number of windows and inhabitants; one side of it was aflame. The hedges around each field like teeth, they were aflame, too.
    Wracked by the knowledge that I would miss such views—views of scenery I passed twice everyday and could not tire of—I became sad and placed my open book across my chest. All the colours were marquees of holy. ‘I shall miss you,’ I thought, and then we were into the village and out again (the sun’s ghost still bobbing under my eyelids).

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