{"id":251335,"date":"2026-07-13T01:12:09","date_gmt":"2026-07-12T22:12:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/abra-joan-barfoot\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T01:12:09","modified_gmt":"2026-07-12T22:12:09","slug":"abra-joan-barfoot","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/abra-joan-barfoot\/","title":{"rendered":"Abra – Joan Barfoot"},"content":{"rendered":"
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There was nothing I had ever felt before to guide me. This was my home. But Mr. Chapman\u2019s voice grew louder, more insistent, it penetrated and when I looked at him I saw his face was nervous, wondering. I must look strange to him, I thought, and some of the Abra who did not want to cause worry returned. I gave in and followed him outside, and we went for a walk, out to where the pasture meets the woods, so that I would see the fall of the property and understand its boundaries and what it contained.<\/p>\n

The land, yes, it held me too, but it was the cabin that was truly my own, and when we returned to it I told Mr. Chapman that I wanted to go back in, to think about it for just a few minutes, and if he wanted to start back down the lane to the car, I would catch up shortly. My voice seemed to be coming from far away, saying what was necessary, but everything must have appeared all right to him because he gave me the key and asked me to lock up when I left.<\/p>\n

I was inside. The counters, all in natural wood, I felt them, unfinished but without splinters, smooth, solid, the kitchen large and warm. Through the low, brief passage to the living room; the fireplace, bare peeling walls, work to be done, yes, and a breeze coming through the broken window panes; and into the bedroom, peeling also but plain and the window looking up into the willow, how good, I thought, to wake up and know the willow is keeping watch, everything shabby, and me wanting to just stay, to curl up in it until I absorbed it or it absorbed me, this odd peace that was not peaceful, no memories, no bars, just a holding.<\/p>\n

The house belonged to me, it was right, and nothing could matter beside that. And the smell of spring, of rushing water and greening things, I hadn\u2019t known about any of this before, and yet here it was, part of me, so that there was no confusion, and I wanted to lie down in front of the fireplace and just be left.<\/p>\n

I stayed there for a long time before the old part emerged again, the practical one that reminded me that someone was waiting, that I had to make a decision, had to get home. Except that it wasn\u2019t home, and why did I have to go there?<\/p>\n

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Copyright \u00a9 2012 Joan Barfoot This edition copyright \u00a9 2012 Cormorant Books Inc. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program.<\/p>\n

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program. ePub ISBN 9781770862715 Kindle ISBN 9781770862722 CORMORANT BOOKS INC. 390 Steelcase Road East, Markham, Ontario, L3R 1G2 www.cormorantbooks.com 1kitap1.com\/en Abra 1kitap1.com\/en 1 My name is Abra. My name is Abra. I had almost forgotten that; the naming of things lost its importance here, with no one to hear them named.<\/p>\n

And so, until just now \u2014 you see I am remembering time as well \u2014 \u201cAbra\u201d was gone. Now she is here again, as are so many other things, memories, and I do not know any longer. I thought the struggling time was over. I had forgotten it. I had forgotten so many things. Abra. An odd name. Today I have said it over and over, making the sounds, making it disintegrate into nonsense. The harsh \u201cA\u201d at the beginning, sliding away into softness. Abra.<\/p>\n

That is my name; it is what other people have called me. It loses its meaning with repetition. My name. Abra. 1kitap1.com\/en 2 It should have been obvious one of them would turn up, one day. I am glad, though, that I did not think about it. It would not have helped. The girl is pretty, very pretty. I can see her clearly from the garden, where I have been thinning the lettuce, checking growth, weeding; I do this every day, and it is going to be a fine season.<\/p>\n

She is walking slowly toward the cabin \u2014 is a car waiting for her somewhere, or can she have walked all the way from town? She seems a very pale person, but then my own hands working among the plants are now so brown that I cannot really be a judge of pallor. She doesn\u2019t notice me squatting in the garden.<\/p>\n

I imagine she knocks very softly on the door, for she looks timid. I consider, at first, staying where I am, waiting, quiet, until she leaves.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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