I was sixteen the summer the light came.
Grandfather stood under the shade of a cherry tree, smoking his pipe. He watched shirtless young men digging holes, erecting poles, and dragging rolled wire along the fields.
“Blown up in our own beds we’ll be,” Grandfather muttered.
Father marvelled at the future. Cows milked by machine; an electric turnip cutter to feed the livestock in winter. Light, at the turn of a switch, in the house and sheds.
Mother raved about electric kettles, washing machines, and fridges.
Me, I mooned about like a love-sick goose girl — blinded by the new light.
Selected - Drabble - February