Вино из одуванчиков

           Itwasonlywhenpeoplehadbeenoffonalongtrip,foryears,thattheyshockedyou.Andshefeltlikeawomanwhohasbeenonaroaringblacktrainforseventy-twoyears,landingatlastupontherailplatformandeveryonecrying:"HelenBentley,isthatyou?"

           "Iguesswebettergohome,"saidJane."Thanksforthering.Itjustfitsme."

           "Thanksforthecomb.It’sfine."

           "Thanksforthepictureofthelittlegirl."

           "Comeback—youcan’thavethose!"Mrs.Bentleyshoutedastheyraceddownthesteps."They’remine!"

           "Don’t!"saidTom,followingthegirls."Givethemback!"

           "No,shestolethem!Theybelongedtosomeotherlittlegirl.Shestolethem.Thanks!"criedAlice.

           Sonomatterhowshecalledafterthem,thegirlsweregone,likemothsthroughdarkness.

           "I’msorry,"saidTom,onthelawn,lookingupatMrs.Bentley.Hewentaway.

           Theytookmyringandmycombandmypicture,thoughtMrs.Bentley,tremblingthereonthesteps.Oh,I’mempty,empty;it’spartofmylife.

           Shelayawakeformanyhoursintothenight,amonghertrunksandtrinkets.Sheglancedoverattheneatstacksofmaterialsandtoysandoperaplumesandsaid,aloud,"Doesitreallybelongtome?"

           Orwasittheelaboratetrickofanoldladyconvincingherselfthatshehadapast?Afterall,onceatimewasover,itwasdone.Youwerealwaysinthepresent.Shemayhavebeenagirlonce,butwasnotnow.Herchildhoodwasgoneandnothingcouldfetchitback.

           Anightwindblewintheroom.