Вино из одуванчиков

           "Thisone,oneyearfromnow,thisone,twoyearsfromnow,andthisone,three,four,fiveyearsfromnow!"

           Bang!Thewirebeaterhissedlikeasnakeintheblindsky.

           "Andonetogrowon!"saidTom.

           Hehittherugsohardallthedustoffivethousandcenturiesjumpedfromtheshockedtexture,pausedontheairaterriblemoment,andevenasDouglasstood,eyessquintedtoseethewarp,thewoof,theshiveringpattern,theArmenianavalancheofdustroaredsoundlessupon,over,downandaround,buryinghimforeverbeforetheireyes...

           Howitbeganwiththechildren,oldMrs.Bentleyneverknew.Sheoftensawthem,likemothsandmonkeys,atthegrocer’s,amongthecabbagesandhungbananas,andshesmiledatthemandtheysmiledback.Mrs.Bentleywatchedthemmakingfootprintsinwintersnow,fillingtheirlungswithautumnsmoke,shakingdownblizzardsofspringapple-blossoms,butfeltnofearofthem.Asforherself,herhousewasinextremegoodorder,everythingsettoitsstation,thefloorsbrisklyswept,thefoodsneatlytinned,thehatpinsthrustthroughcushions,andthedrawersofherbedroombureauscrisplyfilledwiththeparaphernaliaofyears.

           Mrs.Bentleywasasaver.Shesavedtickets,oldtheaterprograms,bitsoflace,scarves,railtransfers;allthetagsandtokensofexistence.

           "I’veastackofrecords,"sheoftensaid."Here’sCaruso.Thatwasin1916,inNewYork;IwassixtyandJohnwasstillalive.Here’sTuneMoon,1924,Ithink,rightafterJohndied."

           Thatwasthehugeregretofherlife,inaway.