Sour Apples

There are two pictures my father took of me when I was a kid. I’m sitting on the front step of my uncle’s house, barefoot with a bucket of apples. When I see them I remember the taste of freedom.

Uncle Barry lived in a little square box in the middle of a large meadow, a five-minute walk from the sea. It was one of those old houses you never see anymore, with a bed in the kitchen next to the wood stove. I think there was a bedroom, there…