Вино из одуванчиков

           Theairhadadifferent,driersmellandGrandmawastalkingofhotcoffeeinsteadoficedtea;theopen,white-flutter-curtainedwindowswereclosinginthegreatbays;coldcutsweregivingwaytosteamedbeef.Themosquitoesweregonefromtheporch,andsurelywhentheyabandonedtheconflictthewarwithTimewasreallydone,therewasnothingforitbutthathumansalsoforsakethebattleground.

           NowTomandDouglasandGrandfatherstood,astheyhadstoodthreemonths,orwasitthreelongcenturiesago,onthisfrontporchwhichcreakedlikeashipslumberingatnightingrowingswells,andtheysniffedtheair.Inside,theboys’bonesfeltlikechalkandivoryinsteadofgreenmintsticksandlicoricewhipsasearlierintheyear.ButthenewcoldtouchedGrandfather’sskeletonfirst,likearawhandchordingtheyellowbasspianokeysinthediningroom.

           Asthecompassturns,soturnedGrandfather,north.

           "Iguess,"hesaid,deliberating,"wewon’tbecomingouthereanymore."

           Andthethreeofthemclankedthechainsshakendownfromtheporch-ceilingeyeletsandcarriedtheswinglikeaweatheredbieraroundtothegarage,followedbyablowingofthefirstdriedleaves.Inside,theyheardGrandmapokingupafireinthelibrary.Thewindowsshookwithasuddengustofwind.

           Douglas,spendingalastnightinthecupolatoweraboveGrandmaandGrandpa,wroteinhistablet:

           "Everythingrunsbackwardnow.Likematineefilmssometimes,wherepeoplejumpoutofwaterontodivingboards.