He told bedtime stories every night. And in these fake adventures (characters wholly made up, or else borrowed from comics and cartoons), he told the story of our lives. Details seeped in, stayed in - and wishes and dreams (his/ours) marked our time.
"Once upon a time, there was a boy named Gene, and he loved to walk in the fields. Summer was a great waiting time, a season of hope - not a hope like spring, not a potential, but a hope of living and growing. A vast ocean of time between the last day of school and the first, when boys could see and do, and even learn. Blond hair curling in the afternoon sun, a hot breeze, and warm dirt under his bare feet, corn tassels just high enough to brush his shoulders, and the cheeks of his little brother Paul.
- C’mon, said Gene.
- Where are we going? said Paul.
- You’ll see, said Gene.
The boys walked and walked. Gene saw it coming, Paul didn’t, until they reached the last row of corn. The woods. One last look over their shoulders, back toward home and town. Then a step, two steps, into cool shade.
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