Thursday, 27 October 2016
“… he is unlike the other customers. They sense it too, and look at him with hard eyes, eyes like little metal studs pinned into the white faces of young men [...] In the hush his entrance creates, the excessive courtesy the weary woman behind the counter shows him amplifies his strangeness. He orders coffee quietly and studies the rim of the cup to steady the sliding in his stomach. He had thought, he had read, that from shore to shore all America was the same. He wonders, Is it just these people I’m outside or is it all America?”
― John Updike, Rabbit, Run
Sonny stood on the back porch looking through the screen door across the vacant yard.
A wide dirty stump sat in the middle of the small lot where the old oak had been.
Bits of broken flower pots and an old tin jar lid lay strewn about its base.
Once there had been a rickety table made from an disused picket fence nailed up against the tree where his grandmother had potted plants.
The hinges were pulling away from the sides of the tool shed making the door creak slowly as the wind blew.
The grass out in the field beyond was tall and brown and needed to be cut.
Everything smelled precisely as it always had.