"i had seen two of the apple trees in my grandmother's orchard die where they stood. one spring there were no leaves, but they stood there as if expectantly, their limbs almost to the ground, miming their perished fruitfulness. every winter the orchard is flooded with snow, and every spring the waters are parted, death is undone, and every lazarus rises, except these two. they have lost their bark and blanched white, and a wind will snap their bones, but if ever a leaf does appear, it should be no great wonder. it would be a small change, as it would be say, for the moon to begin turning on its axis. it seemed to me that what perished need not also be lost. at sylvie's house, my grandmother's house, so much of what i remembered i could hold in my hand- like a china cup, or a windfall apple, sour and cold from its affinity with deep earth, with only a trace of the perfume of its blossoming. sylvie, i knew, felt the life of perished things."
housekeeping, p. 124
housekeeping, p. 124
