The sweet smell of Great Uncle Wally's aftershave hits you as you enter his house. It's Sunday. Mom says he bathes in Old Spice before heading to church. Crabapples rest in a white bowl trimmed with blue and gold, next to his chair. A bowl of brown sugar and a sharp pocket knife are waiting for his calloused hands to offer me a taste. Even dipped in brown sugar, they're too much for me. We move to his porch to take in the breeze sweeping in across the hay field from the sunset. The state wants a good part of his property, he tells Dad. They're putting in a tollway. A white horse stands motionless in the distance, feeding my imagination. Voices fade as I take in the horse's whiteness and the grey, weathered boards of Uncle Wally's house. Behind Dad, the gold and orange of the sunset reflect in the dark window of the old house. Sights and sounds of the country muff the voices of problems. Selling the house is out of the question, as a bluejay calls. Dying on his porch with that sunset is Uncle Wally's wish. Mom understands, but still offers a place at our house as shadows creep across the Fox Valley. The silver snake of the river fades the whiteness of the horse, as dreams cloud my head.
Jordan, setting a plate of apple slices before me brings me back to the present. The landscape I see her in is of my boyhood, silent voices fade as the sweet taste of an apple slice snaps from my bite.
Josephine reaches for another strawberry as Jordan wipes the yogurt from Josephine's feet. Eating or bathing in it, I reach for a fresh canvas to capture the present.
