Вино из одуванчиков

           Thewaterwassilkinthecup;clear,faintlybluesilk.Itsoftenedthelipandthethroatandtheheart,ifdrunk.Thiswatermustbecarriedindipperandbuckettothecellar,theretobeleavenedinfreshets,inmountainstreams,uponthedandelionharvest.

           EvenGrandma,whensnowwaswhirlingfast,dizzyingtheworld,blindingwindows,stealingbreathfromgaspingmouths,evenGrandma,onedayinFebruary,wouldvanishtothecellar.

           Above,inthevasthouse,therewouldbecoughings,sneezings,wheezings,andgroans,childishfevers,throatsrawasbutcher’smeat,noseslikebottledcherries,thestealthymicrobeeverywhere.

           Then,risingfromthecellarlikeaJunegoddess,Grandmawouldcome,somethinghiddenbutobviousunderherknittedshawl.This,carriedtoeverymiserableroomupstairs-and-downwouldbedispensedwitharomaandclarityintoneatglasses,tobeswiggedneatly.Themedicinesofanothertime,thebalmofsunandidleAugustafternoons,thefaintlyheardsoundsoficewagonspassingonbrickavenues,therushofsilverskyrocketsandthefountainingoflawnmowersmovingthroughantcountries,allthese,alltheseinaglass.

           Yes,evenGrandma,drawntothecellarofwinterforaJuneadventure,mightstandaloneandquietly,insecretconclavewithherownsoulandspirit,asdidGrandfatherandFatherandUnclePert,orsomeoftheboarders,communingwithalasttouchofacalendarlongdeparted,withthepicnicsandthewarmrainsandthesmelloffieldsofwheatandnewpopcornandbendinghay.