Mother and someone else -my nephew Craig perhaps, sat on low-slung lawn chairs next to the kennel that once harbored a dog named Rufus, possibly 30 years before. Moisture still clung to the grass. It was pristine quiet -no cars or gardening equipment, nothing. A stand of Douglas Fir stood behind them.
"There's something wonderful I want you to hear! " I said as I returned to the house and brought out my boombox. I slipped in a CD, *Vivaldi's Four Seasons*. I put on *Summer* first.
Vivaldi was Italian and, despite his priesthood, had loved women. *Summer* was not about the season but his passion. You can't tell me otherwise. Mother loved Italy. It was where her life was changed forever. 'Summer' was perfect for her.
I wonder if Mother later reflected on that day in my backyard in Olympia, Washington.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.09 seconds at 6:34pm on Nov 10, 2024 via server WEBX2.