And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime he was always busy with his hands.
“When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. The rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land.” The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty exhausts. The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire and oven heat. People leaned from their dripping porches and watched the reddening sky. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art work.
The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient green lawns. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The children worked off their wool clothes. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. A flooding sea of hot air it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. “One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.Īnd then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town.
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