The American
THERE WERE TWO metal crosses on the roof, a stone bench by the front door, and three small barns, the doors of which were robin’s egg blue. A few old walnut trees, quince, apricot, cherry, peach. A fig tree straying from a foundered wall. The centuries-old house looked over the Dordogne Valley, green and cloud-shadowed in high summer.
Gas stations, the ranks of baguettes. Outside, families sat on the grass. Teenagers in Hollister shirts looked at their phones, juggled a soccer ball. At one station, my oldest daughter spotted a teddy bear on the dash of a truck hauling sand, a dream catcher hanging from the rearview. On the side of a van nearby, the likeness of a wind turbine and the English words:
