Old Man in Yard

I loved my papa.  I always did.  In  the warm summer months we would all gather in the hill overlooking the vineyards of our town.  I carried a small checkered tablecloth, carrying a special surprise and a always a rosy complexion.  I carried it with me everywhere; to Sunday prayers, to the market with my mom, with my sister to the corner shop.  School was the place I left it.  But it would always come back in the morning.  My papa would always come to the hill, all sweaty and sunburned.  He would come right after work.  Mama would make the meal.  There would always be crunchy greens in a sandwich, some mild cheese, some bottles of soda.  Dad always loved the meals.  He didn’t say it but you could tell from his demeanor.  Those days the sun was orange, red, yellow and setting and the family enjoyed its time there.  I stared at daddy while sitting with mama.  The burnt sun was would become duller and duller and the family would speak and eat and drink wine.  These are the days I have thought on much in time.  The days never seem as vibrant and the sun never as colorful as it was then.  But life has passed and meandered and brought different things, and I will never forget those times.

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