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| Steve Leto |
(1993)
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| After The Renovation | ||||
| The man who was born in our house enters shyly now, hesitant to intrude on the life we live in the rooms where his first fifty-two years hover like strands of smoke stirred by our passing. The walls that remain murmur a shock of recognition and he relaxes a little, tells us who his grandfather hired to build the place a century ago, and how the first barn Līed to the east until it rotted and fell. We guide him through the house heīs showing us and bit by bit the farm that stares from his motherīs photos wakens from its stillness. His wife who died last week is busy everywhere but he talks about his father, who churned butter in our bathroom and died in our bedroom days after a log crushed his leg against the sled. Over coffee our guest says heīs eighty-four and hopes not to get much older, then leaves in one quick thankyou. While his car bends slowly home you resume hanging curtains and in a corner of my study I watch him being born. |
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