Ilie smiled, a slow, bittersweet curve of the lips. He stood up, his joints popping like dry twigs. He walked to the edge of the porch, where the wood met the dust.
The literal and emotional departure of the sons leaving the father isolated.
“You think you can measure time with a ruler,” Ilie said, tossing the half-carved wood into the dirt. “But time doesn't stay in the lines. It’s like the wind in the wheat—you can’t own it, and you certainly can’t stop it from blowing you away.”
