3. Away from the Downs
If my ship sails from sight, it doesn't mean my journey ends; it simply means the river bends.
- Enoch Powell
Wilbur Ridgeway walked slowly away from the downs, one arm raised to cradle the warm bundle against his chest.
He had not been on the downs in many years, not since he was a boy about the same age as his young son, Anthony was now.
Wilbur Ridgeway was not even certain what had possessed him to venture onto the downs that morning. It was not close to his farm and the land was essential devoid of anything of interest to the man.
Perhaps Wilbur had been drawn to the place of his childhood because Anthony seemed to have had no time to be a child himself.
The man cringed at the thought of his son, right then probably lying in bed; too weak to go outside and play with the boys from the nearby farmsteads or even attend school. Wilbur Ridgeway and his wife, Mary, were grateful that Miss Adams was kind enough to come to their home twice a week to tutor Anthony.
Catching sight of his truck sitting on the narrow dirt road where he had left it, the farmer began walking faster; quickly glancing into his jacket at the five rabbit kits snuggled against the flannel of his shirt.
They were small, smaller than even a newborn rabbit should be, with tufts of brown and grey fur sprouting up in patches along their pink skins. Their eyes were open and they wriggled constantly but Wilbur was not convinced they would survive. They certainly wouldn't have lived if he'd left them in that hollow on top of the downs. Not only were birds of prey a threat to the kits but also the early spring weather on the downs could be unpredictable and ruthless.
Besides, Wilbur thought, it would be good for Anthony to have something to take care of, to help take his mind of his illness.
Opening the driver's side door to his truck, the farmer carefully climbed into the cab. Smiling at the sight of the basket his wife had packed for him sitting on the passenger's seat, Wilbur used his free hand and drew out its contents: a ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, a slice of strawberry pie and a bottle of beer, and gently nestled the rabbit kits against the handkerchief lining the basket.
Turning the key in the ignition, Wilbur Ridgeway drove slowly down the rutted dirt road that led away from the downs, his thoughts on his son.
Author's Note:
Thanks to Chipster-roo for reviewing.
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