paper rings (l.h.)

51

Mary's POV:

My body protested each move it made to get out of bed, or tried to. My aching back screamed at each move I made, each breath I took sprawled on my back in my lumpy hand-me-down mattress.

I felt each ache and pop of my bones with each step I took, each movement of one leg, then the other, over the side of my twin-sized mattress. It was small and long, and I couldn't help but wonder how Luke and I managed a summer together here, in this bed.

But what hurt most of all was the absence of him. The lack of his bright blue eyes, as blue as the sky that peeked in from my open bedroom window. The breeze that blew over us in those early mornings seemed to disappear when he did, and I spent most of my time here trying not to think about him half as much as I do. But it was useless. I was hopelessly devoted to him, as the poets would say. Every breath I took, every step I made, I had him in the back of my mind. Was he thinking about me half as much as I was of him? I doubt it. He was busy, he had his life and I had mine. Each time I thought I'd have made some progress, I'd walk into the gas station to hear Youngblood pumping over the local radio station. The Boys that Got Away, the small-town radio host called them. The announcer claimed to have ran into them a few times, I doubted it. They were the pride of this small town in Southern Mississippi, others would say. They did not care that Luke was an addict, they instead were happy to see one of their own making something that will last long after they passed. I wondered if I would ever be afforded such a privilege.

Each small town I passed from my home to here had photos, plaques that displayed the influential people that the county raised. I saw Eisenhower, other names I recognized from history books. I wondered if Luke, Calum, Ashton and Mike's name would appear on our plaque one day, too.

My hair was a mess, tied on top of my head as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror. Sun leaked in through the window in my room, as well as the bathroom window, and projected the sunrise's pink hue over the floor. I had work in two hours, but my morning duties here still continued:

I had assumed my Grandma was still in deep slumber, Luke the same. It felt as if I was the only one awake in my side of the world, and I did not mind it. I sat my hot cup of tea on the porch, slid on my coop boots, and grabbed a basket or two before finding my way into the side of the yard.

The chickens were happy to see me, or see the food in the bucket I threw about their grassy home, watching how the balls of clucking feathers ran about the coop. My boots nearly reaching my thighs, my bare legs under my dress felt the breeze from a hundred flapping wings against them. "Good morning," I greeted them, as I usually do. Carefully, I pluck each egg off of their nests. "Thank you, ladies."

The boots rubbed into my inner thighs, my skin red and raw by the time I was able to kick it off. Despite the snakes and bugs, I learned to watch my step as I roamed barefoot around here front yard. There were no work trucks to drop nails, no people around to fill the grass with anything other than thick growth.

Walking to the porch, I couldn't help but notice the garden my Grandma had started last spring begin to wrap up its giving season. The grass surrounding me was beginning to grow long, which brought the dandelions and the butterflies in once more before the season ended. Luke noticed the snakes, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when he tried to pick one up. The air was still hot, and still sticky, but I didn't mind it as I walked down each row of the garden, plant shears held in my hand.

In a separate basket, I plucked off all the ripe fruit and vegetables and herbs from their vine: pumpkins, peas, carrots, potatoes, celery, watermelon, thyme, rosemary and chives. I was careful of the critters, rehoming ones that had found the crops before I did. Across the road, I saw Mr. Holiday's bald head as he worked in the field, his dog running laps around him.