from The Writers Almanac today. The last line might make you gasp. Now, dont read the last line first, whatever you do. Start at the beginning like the true innocent that you are: Messilla by Carrie Fountain Occasionally, Id wake to the sound of a hot air balloon passing over the house, a short snarl of flame followed by a long, cool gap of silence. And once, while everyone was still sleeping, I got on my bike and followed to where one landed in a field across the highway, where I stood on the ditch and watched the huge, austere bulb touch down and the passengers, a boy and his father, climb out of the basket and the crew deflate the envelope; where after an hour or so, just as Id hoped-just as Id been hoping-someone called me over to help fold the fabric. It was nothing like I thought itd be. It was a lot of waiting and then being spoken to brusquely by men who were not my father. It did bring about a great feeling of neatness, though, watching the enormous thing folded and folded and folded again, until it fit, impossibly, along with the cooled burners, into its own basket, which was hoisted onto a truck and driven away. Couldnt we be accounted for in the same way? Didnt we, too, carry our whole lives in our mouths? Messilla by Carrie Fountain from Burn Lake. © Penguin, 2010. Reprinted with permission
Posted on: Tue, 13 May 2014 18:20:52 +0000
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