LITMIR.BIZ

      An opening formed in dark clouds, a scenery lit up before her view. ‘What is this, am I dreaming again?’ In a cottage far away, watching through window, out there grassland, pungent of forgotten dreams. ‘Something is moving in the tall grass; he is a boy running, hair of black. Oh, he is my son, Danny the junior; I named him after his father. He is twelve-years-old now, so strong, he takes after his father. And, there he is another one, my second son, Jonny. How painful I delivered him, but all the pain was worth it. Nine-years-old now, runs as fast as his brother. They are playing with their father in the grass. The oval ball goes so high in the air, Jonny gets that and runs. There is some movement in the field, something like golden hair. Oh, she is Lisa my four-year-old daughter. She can hardly see his brothers through the grass. Whoever has the ball, she runs after him. My beauty thinks she is part of the play. She falls down, tries to stand up as fast as possible, lest his brothers see her fallen. She runs this side after Jonny; Junior gets the ball, she runs that side. Poor girl has taken the game so seriously.’ The aroma of apples, smothered in butter, cream, and cinnamon, with a background of fresh baked crust. She turns to the oven, ‘The apple pie is ready,’ She takes the big pie out, remembering his second son advice, ‘Mummy I want the crust hard but not too hard and I want the apples inside soft but not too soft, above them all, I want it fresh and hot. As always is Lisa’s job, she seconds his brothers, she repeats, mostly the last part.’