Deep into July, in those days when the upcoming events vary only with the changing of the weather (which was seldom below eighty degrees), one can find themselves faced only with enjoyable, practical work, and life seems to drip by slowly like molasses.
Yes, it was deep into July, on a small farm, when a girl named Margarita found herself both bored and alone.
Her parents, on that very morning, had wished their dearest Rita a sincere goodbye, for they had been called as far West as Indiana for their jobs. In the Autumn they would return, laden with gifts and bursting with praise for how well she had kept the farm, Rita was sure.
But now Rita sat alone on the red brick steps, long after the caramel-colored car had glided down the winding driveway. She was not entirely alone, of course, as one never can be on a farm, and she was reminded of this as Bandit rested next to her.
Bandit was the farm dog. He, better than anyone else, knew what animals should be fed at what times. Lest the chickens pace, the sheep bray, the cats crowd, or the horses stand to swish their tails at the gate, he would find Rita. And Rita understood that it was truly to Bandit that her parents had left the farm.
Rita stood, patting the dust from her green dress. The daisies embroidered into the green fabric fluttered, and though the dress was simple, and had been rehemmed several times, it was her best Summer dress. But it was old and short enough that Rita had to wear her shorts underneath it anyways. She thought about this as she stood, now watching Bandit stand up beside her.
The animals had already been fed this morning, which gave Rita the entire day for doing what she always did: baking, sewing, reading, and exploring the well-trodden grounds of the farm. She chose the latest and began to pick her way down into the thick, knee-high clover of the pasture, Bandit following closely behind her, as always.