As in an old memoir, the rhododendrons were over. Hunger persisted, and the light was weak — the light of music and books, the light paintings cast on bowls of fruit and table cloths, to make them ours . . .
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet