It was pitch black when they reached the fence. Then his mother would leave him curled up beside the stump of an almond tree to sleep a little longer. The stars fell intermittently upon him, enveloping him. The jingle of bells could be heard here and there as she, crouching over the capers, skillfully harvested the fruit, dodging the treacherous tiny thorns that hid among the leaves and shoots. When the first light of day appeared, she would wake him, and he, small as he was, would accompany her, checking the bushes she had harvested first. The task would stop in mid-morning and resume when the heat eased. The heavy work remained in the memory of her constantly linked back and her patchy hands, dried from the stubble that covers the plant. This was the case every day, every summer month, until the capers no longer had any quality and became soft or opened just as they were born. A flowery estate could betray a family's neglect, indolent flowers, lost wealth. Now the fields of cover are immense gardens that would shame my godfather if he could see them, he who was once a child curled up in an almond tree.