Mud.

Mud.

My mother always said if I could, I would live my entire life barefoot. I couldn't help it. I loved how the mud and dirt felt between my toes. It was on especially rainy days that you wouldn't catch a glimpse of me indoors. I would spend the entire day tromping around, building mud castles to later jump on and destroy. Come nightfall I would be sopping wet and covered head to toe in the sloppy goodness. Thankfully, Mother had always prepared me a bath. It was a warm welcome to the end of an exhausting fun-filled day. My two older brothers, Edward and Thomas never lasted as long as I did. They usually turned in before nightfall. They were always in hysterics as I entered the house. My father's stern face would wrinkle in amusement at the sight of me. My mother would sigh and usher me to the bath hurriedly, "Shoo! Unless you want to sleep with the pigs, there better not be an speck of dirt left come time for supper!" No matter how clean I looked, Mother would always inspect behind my ears and around my neck. I will admit there was a time or two I was sent back for a second washing.

"There's my girl!" My father would always welcome me to the table with a hug, as if the mud had disguised me until that moment. He always smelled of coal and musk. His salt and pepper beard would tickle my ears and I would giggle, which encouraged him to wiggle his beard next to my ear more. I would collapse in a fit of giggles as his strong arms held me to him and his beard. Eventually he would release me and I would skip to my seat next to my brother Thomas. 

 "Thomas, why don't you say grace tonight." My father would choose one of us to pray over our meal each night. As much as it was supposed to be a prayer it always felt more like a test. A test to see if we could remember every blessing from the day and present it in prayer with just the right amount of enthusiasm. 

My father was a hard, but fair man. All the years in the mines had slowly stripped away at him. After ten years of working the mines he developed a cough. His slender frame shook so violently as he coughed that we all would remain motionless, eyes wide, until it ceased. "Darn hairball, Henry you are going to be the death of me, cat!" Henry would rouse slightly to yawn and stretch by the fire. "Look, darn cat doesn't even care." By then we would all be laughing and petting Henry. He would then start on a long story about something from when he was a child. We were always reeled in by his still bright imagination and attention to detail. I didn't realize then, but I can see now...