Dry

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the earth cries for us.

Dry

Dry, dusty, hot, the day had taken on the character of bread under the heat lamp of the local fast food restaurant.  The Sun was in front, to the side and behind.  It’s golden rays seemed to punish the fields in front of me, 50 lashes to the dry rows of dirt with its corn stalk nerve endings being stroked by the hot breeze that like an invisible hand on a third degree burn was causing the ground unbearable, possibly terminal pain.  I could smell the dirt, hear it scream from under the fields that spread out in front of the doorway where I stood and from that wet patch of dirt behind the barn. 

The air was also tinged with the ever so sweet smell of pine sap that was coming out of the wood in my log cabin and it bade pull me back out of the doorway to escape the violence I was witnessing across and under the 20 acres of dirt and corn in front of me.  Beads of sweat dropped from my brow and I could hear the panting from my sheep dog “paint”.  In that moment I stopped worrying about myself so much and put myself in the coat of my furry friend, it gave me that feeling of gratitude to be me and not someone suffering more than I and it lifted my spirit enough to turn and walk back inside.

I made my way across the living room with paint at my heels and walked back to the 6 chair table of the dining room and sat down in the high back chair at the closest side to the kitchen, her side.  I glanced down at the pile of papers and the calculator that sat next to my wire rim glasses and the sweaty glass of water, ice cubes mostly melted and I started to cry.

Tears dropped down onto the letter, it’s three creases less lively from the time it had been out of the envelope it came in and I saw the bolded words getting wet, FORECLOSURE, you have 30 days to leave the premise,…….I looked back up.

Life is most cruel when you have everything to lose.  I had lost so much, I wasn’t sure how I got here, where did the months go since she passed, had I done anything remotely constructive?  The people, the friends as they called themselves, stopped by at first but then just whispers while they milled around the living room, sipping tea, playing roughly on the piano and talking of old times.  I saw them, crude objects in the light that shone through the front glass picture window, the light that shown in made them look dark, like grotesque shadows.  Seeing them was like watching an old time film at the theatre in Whiting, lips moving but no sound, silently scuttling.  They did not flow in the light or smile while talking and waving their hands in beautiful gestures as she did. 

Then the whispers became gossips, “why don’t we see him at the church, I hear that he keeps whiskey around and is back to smoking, could there another women coming to see him already?” 

I looked across to the left through the open square that I had cut into the wall so she could talk to me while she was making dinner.  She insisted we be able to see each other while I set the table, “always for six” she said, even when it was only her and I, “you never know who may stop by at supper time, so we do the courteous thing and make enough for all”. 

We weren’t even moved in more than a day when she told me I had to cut a hole in that wall, stayed on me for two weeks till I got it done. 

Why was it so hot and dry? I had lived and worked this farm through many a summer but I don’t remember this kind of heat, only the one storm had come and that was months ago, leaving much damage in its wake.    

Maybe I should open the back door and a breeze could come through and at least give paint some refuge, I thought to myself.

As I came around the corner of the dining room and crossed the kitchen to the backdoor, I saw out of the corner of my eye, the half-finished bottle of Old Grand Dad 114 whiskey and the tumbler I had in my hand for the better part of the morning.  I stopped and thought to myself, “Lewis, you are just foolish to believe there is anything like a promising wind for you out there” and grabbed the tumbler and bottle and walked back into the living room.

I sat down in the rocking chair she used to knit in and gently pushed myself back and forth, feeling that initial feeling you get as a kid when you first start up on a swing, that tickle in my belly, I smiled for just a second and suddenly the thought of that wet patch behind the barn, where the discolor of dirt, though dry as the rest, made it clear something was disturbed there.  I stopped, leaned forward and poured the tumbler full.  I sat the bottle down to the side of my worn, dusty boot, heel shod from wear that made me walk like I was on ball bearings sometimes and sat back up and took a long pull form the tumbler.

As I straightened up, I looked across the room at the gun cabinet with my .45 holstered and hanging.  I took another long hard pull on my drink and wondered if it was cooler where she was.