Its hot the whole time. Searing hot, with a hot wind. It doesn't cool down at nights, and we sweat and toss in the dark. If we hang out towels at eight in the evening, they are dry in the morning because there is no dew. Some times the thunder grumbles in the distance, and I lie there waiting to hear the sound of abundance of rain, but it does not come. The grass is brown and the dust rises and settles.
The time flies by. Families begin leaving, one by one.The field is empty. The tents are pulled down. The circle of chairs in the shady spots sit lonely and forgotten. The silence spreads and covers the noisy, happy places." Come back," whispers the wind through the dusty screens."Come back," say the sheets on the line, flung into the wind and back again. The baby pool lies upside down and empty. The beds lie sheetless and bare. Only a small trace, a tiny pink sandal, a very dirty white sock, a row of bikes and trucks waiting to be ridden down the big hill, a camoflage cap, three pairs of fairy wings hanging on the pear tree. Thats all thats left of the dozens of cousins.