where we went

It was a long drive, but we're here at last. My mother's made raspberry-rhubarb crumble and orange-rhubarb jam, but what I like best is eating rhubarb raw. Ever since I can remember, my mother's warned me that rhubarb leaves are poisonous and when once, without noticing what I was doing, I took a bite of one, I sat by the fireplace and waited to die.

In the backyard, besides the rhubarb, there's a pergola covering a brick-lined path that leads to a round fountain with water spouting in the center and, at the other end of the yard, a tiny waterfall splashing into a tiny pond. In the spring, my mother tells me, the pond was full of frogs, but we can see that they've all disappeared. The peonies are over, but there's astilbe, all ferny and feathery, and a trellis of clematis that my mother says she grew from seed.

Tomorrow's the book sale and Sunday's the parade and sooner or later we'll have to walk down to the fair by the river, but right now, all that's left to do is clear the table and admire Tibby the cat and check the back of the refrigerator one more time to see if there's any leftover raspberry-rhubarb crumble.