Absence

For the ninth year now, the terrace is covered with walnuts. What with the muddy trenches and mayhem from the irrigation work in course, I haven't attempted to haul out the drying trays. Instead, I've emptied baskets of nuts directly onto the stone floor as Monsieur Gonzales used to do before I had trays made. I roll them about with a broom so they'll dry evenly, with the same familiar clatter and motion as his. In fact, because the nuts are now only one layer deep and the wind from the north sweeps with regularity across the terrace, the nuts are drying in record time. His method was the right one after all. How elegant and restrained he was about my naïve attempt to give professionalism to our little enterprise by having the local carpenter build us drying trays. Never a word of criticism, just a shake of the head and a shift to doing things my way. Will I ever stop missing him?

The wind in the plane tree and the dry scuttle of leaves across the gravel are suddenly broken by a wild calling from the direction of La Tache. I run through the gate just as a dark wedge of cranes (les grues) knifes through the sky headed toward warmer lands. When the wild cranes pass, the cold isn't far behind.

Today is La Toussaint (All Saints’ Day). The first Toussaint since he died. Yesterday, I took flowers to his grave. From the small, wind-swept cemetery, I could make out the ridge top to the north, where his farm and mine hug the swell of high meadow. This morning, with his family and all