I did not tell my name.

She fell on her knees. She drank from her hands at the spring. I could

feel the cold water warring with the sunshine in her sinews. She would

never have done with splashing eyelids and ears, and cheeks and red

arms and throat. The rosebushes behind her leaped in the wind. The

boy and his mother and the grandmother knelt at that same place and

splashed after that same manner. Then the grandmother nudged me.

“Wash,” she said.