Outside, the wind was still blowing down from the foothills. It was a warm fast wind that shook through the avocado trees and left big columns of dust clear down to the road, then stopped dead still. The dust settled through the silver yard light on the machine shed and I thought I caught a glimpse of my dad disappearing behind the corrugated-metal wall where the tractor was parked. I circled around behind the shed on the other side and my breath started to pick up for fear he’d catch me spying on him. I waited for the next blast of wind to cover my movements and I went quick, trying to Scotch-hop through the broad dry leaves on the ground. When I got up behind the old acacia tree I saw my dad kneeling behind the shed, facing the metal wall. He was very close to the wall and had his back to the orchard. He took off his captain’s hat and laid it on the ground beside him. I could see the silver flight wings gleaming in the light. He took the little brown bag out of his pocket and pulled out a small yellow candle. He lit the candle with his Zippo and set it on a smooth stone at the base of the wall. The wind came up again but the flame hardly bent at all. My dad stared down at it for the longest time with his hands resting on his thighs. He just stared straight into the flickering light as the wind hummed through the rafters of the shed roof and the reflection of the flame bounced off the corrugated wall. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then, finally, he brought his hands together and squeezed them tight. His lips never moved, though. I watched them very closely but they never moved at all.

It Wasn’t Proust

IT WASN’T PROUST