Six years ago I plowed this field in Alabama the last time.
In its place are houses for rich people. Covering memories of grandparents picking cotton Plain and simple I sold out. No romanticism just math. Security versus uncertainty.
Then I dealt with my father. My mother spent the last fifteen years in a wheelchair. She had a stroke. He pushed her into a bed and watched football for hours, until the next morning. She was still where she fell, clothes on, unable to stand. She could have been saved. I make no apologies. I made him suffer.
Come October I smell peanuts. Hear the dryness of cotton fields, soil breaking open to receive winter rye. Walking fields looking for arrowheads. Overseeding pastures for winter, praying for rain. I miss every fucking minute.
I no longer remember the names of my cows. Everything loved is gone. But the wonder of it all.
POSTED BY JON