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Our summer in September
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Here's a wonderful story told within
this story, and that which heightens my awareness of my growing fondness for my niece:
When I was a girl I lived in a little city on the side of a mountain. There was snow on top and a green river at the bottom... Strangers who came there called it a city of birds. How true. Of an evening, when it was almost dark, they flew in clouds, and sometimes it was not possible to see the moon rise: never have there been so many birds. But in winter it was bad, mornings so cold we could not break the ice to wash our faces. And on those mornings you would see a sad thing: sheets of feathers where the birds had fallen frozen: believe me. It was my father's job to sweep them up, like old leaves; then they were put into a fire. But a few he would bring home. Mama, all of us, we nursed them until they were strong and could fly away. They would fly away just when we loved them most. Oh, like children! (Capote, Truman. Summer Crossing. Penguin Classis, 2006, pp 87 – 88.)
