Narrative 8:

The field behind the house:

I remember being young there was behind our house a huge field of perhaps half a mile long until a dense forest not really inviting.

I played very often in this field. Alone, with friends or with my sister M. There’s a picture of her with Grandma G. immortalized standing in this large field with grass up to his thighs for my grandmother, to the neck for my sister.

I loved walking in this field.

I loved running in this field.

Sometimes I lay in the grass and watched the sky. Sometimes, after the rain, when there was a rainbow in the sky, I ran with a friend to reach it and we would go so near the end of the field, very close to the dense forest. I then turned back walking backwards to avoid having my back to the forest.

I always had a great sense of freedom in this field, like in a movie cliché or in a novel’s stereotype.

Nothing untoward happened in this field filled with ordinary grass, wild flowers and fireflies some summer evenings.

In the morning when I looked out the kitchen window, I embraced it. At night just before the darkness, I threw a last glance of tenderness and a desire to join it.

I liked this field as one loves a person.

Thank you my friend...