the erosion of time on physical things.
When I’m out in the garden draping netting over the tall stalks of corn because the tasseled tops have appeared and I can see the crows in the trees waiting for the ears to ripen. After I’ve already dug up the peas and the beans having taken in their heavy harvest a week ago. And before I think about getting ready to drive back into the city, I think about my father. At this time of the summer when the State Fair begins to set up its midway for the crowds who mill around eating sugared elephant ears and colored cotton candy and corn dogs, I wonder if he dreams of himself a young man again. I wonder if he can see himself standing before his stall of games, calling out for boys like me to give them a try. Barking at the top of his lungs for a life he imagined he might live, and a fortune he thought belonged to him.