The Lost Salt Gift of Blood
““You’ll be able to see it any minute now, Alex,” says my father excitedly, “look out the window, any minute now.”
He is standing in the aisle by this time with his left hand against the overhead baggage rack while leaning over me and over my mother who is in the seat by the window. He has grasped my right hand in his right and when I look up it is first into the whiteness of his shirt front arching over me and then into the fine features of his face, the blueness of his eyes and his wavy reddis...h hair. He is very tall and athletic looking. He is forty-five.
“Oh Angus, sit down,” says my mother with mingled patience and exasperation, “he’ll see it soon enough. We’re almost there. Please sit down; people are looking at you.”
My left hand lies beside my mother’s right on the green upholstered cushion. My mother has brown eyes and brown hair and is three years younger than my father. She is very beautiful and her picture is often in the society pages of the papers in Montreal which is where we live.MoreLess
He is standing in the aisle by this time with his left hand against the overhead baggage rack while leaning over me and over my mother who is in the seat by the window. He has grasped my right hand in his right and when I look up it is first into the whiteness of his shirt front arching over me and then into the fine features of his face, the blueness of his eyes and his wavy reddis...h hair. He is very tall and athletic looking. He is forty-five.
“Oh Angus, sit down,” says my mother with mingled patience and exasperation, “he’ll see it soon enough. We’re almost there. Please sit down; people are looking at you.”
My left hand lies beside my mother’s right on the green upholstered cushion. My mother has brown eyes and brown hair and is three years younger than my father. She is very beautiful and her picture is often in the society pages of the papers in Montreal which is where we live.MoreLess
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