The Garden
A Parable
The SunWe met on the feast day of Thanksgiving. Our mothers were friends; her mother had four daughters, my mother had four sons, and they must have met in the market one day and planned the dinner together.
My brothers and I were working near the house that day. We didn't know much of the plan; we were trying to fix a cart, and covered in mud. The daughters rode in each in her own time--the first, the eldest, dismounting in the yard, found us peering out with our smudged faces from under the axle; she was extraordinarily beautiful, black hair, dark eyes. We continued to work halfheartedly after she entered the house, until the second daughter arrived--she was blond, with a strong build, and just as striking. By this time we were up on our feet, trying to brush some of the road off our clothes.
The third appeared then, as if it were a fairy tale, with russet hair, and a laughing face and eyes. Her glance as she passed us to where my mother stood at the front door was enough to make us forget the cart, and begin washing our hands and faces in the trough. Then on a small wagon came the mother, and sitting ...
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