My mother's lavender fields were crafted, grown and paved to look like a sword worthy of a king to bare. To cut the will of my enemies and protect those I love, she had once said to me as she took a scythe to the whisp of lavender that strayed with a swing of her big calloused hands. I remember looking up at her big body which she moved with ease in and out of the curves of her fields. Fascinated I was, with rich hues of purple that overtook our farm, as the she held me on her strong shoulders. My legs too short to view them myself.
I remember looking out at the fields proclaiming I wanted to own them with a wide eyed awe, as she thought me how to tend to the lavender, how to tap the oil, how to maintain the lavenders sunset color, and how to preserve the bushes of lavender to make there trip to factories up north.
But now as the year passed me by like wind through the fields, and my height, figure and hair grew both, the wide eyed awe that used to bring a smile to my face transitioned into a smile picking bushels of lavender, which then turned into slow muttering whenever mom told me to work on the fields.
Sitting on top of the roof that made a suspicious creaking noise whenever strong grey winds passed by, which mother had fixed so many times with spare buckets of cement and driftwood from old Joe's shop, down the road and two rights away from Aunt Minnie's okra market. I stared out at the field, its purple color less pungent, the slowly rising smell of the lavender dull to me now. Even the point of the sword seemed blunted, after all these years.
My mouth felt dry as I thought about it.
I was greedy.
A fool.
Mother would agree, too. But with every second I longed to-
"Bonnie, go fetch a pail of water, from the old well." My mother yelled, from her place in the living room. Occupied with a bundle of yarn and two knitting needles in hand.
"Yes ma'am," I said working my way down the roof with slow steps, and eventually sliding down the water spout.
"The pail is out on the porch." My mother hollered two seconds too late, as I already had the pail in hand. And made my way down the dirt road, shuffling a hand through my curls of deep black, which mother bore also, and father before he left a three foot, wide eyed me. I stared out at the winding road, the sun a bright spool of yellow thread in the sky. I reached the market square greeted by the fine lines and deep skin of Magnolia, as she tended to her bushels of tobacco which she chewed like gum.
"Morning," I yelled to her, waving as she flashed me a toothy smile, then got back to shoving globs of brown tobacco in her mouth.
This was how all mornings were. Smiles and laughs, until the hard work of day kicked in, and joyful words drifted into muttered curses.
George I almost mutter gazing at the strong jaw, tan skin and dirt brown curls of my friend since elementary. The memory of which having melded into giggles and being scolded for it by a harsh faced teacher in my mind. A place where we played on the playground till the teacher yelled at us with a hoarse voice, and face that would surely be red if her skin allowed for it.
"Hey George," I mutter not feeling the impulsive smile creep up on my face, that is usually accompanied with any time spent in his presence.
He only shot one of his bushy eyebrow up, lowering his bucket into the well as I walked farther down the path, till I could touch the cool stones of the well with my hands.
"You haven't called me George since the day I walked into elementary school puffy faced, red eyed and you asked me 'why I looked like a lost child at the store'," he said, tugging at the rope to retrieve a damp bucket from the well. "Always Georgie or something like that."
"Just thought I'd switch it up." I muttered through clenched teeth as I felt the strength drain out of my voice.
"You're a bad liar you know." Steve laughed untying the a knot from his bucket as I tied, mine up. Plunging it into well with a satisfying plunk.
"Do you remember that time in middle school, when you asked me to be your date to the dance and I laughed at you because I knew you were just asking me to make the girl who was as you put it 'trying to steal you away from me' jealous ." He says this with extra sass cracking himself up in the process
"Thanks for bringing it up." I whisper, feeling warmth come to my cheeks as I tugged on the rope joined to the pail.
"You called me George there also, said you were switching it up there... I think." he scratches his head a little in the way that makes me think he has lice sometimes.
"What's going on?" He asked passively, lazily sitting down on the ground as he sorted through the water for, stones.
"Nothing" I utter, looking for strength to put in my voice.
"Okay then," he said simply, before getting up and walking down the path again.
"Wait," I yelled stopping his steady footsteps, as he turned his head back.
" Yes" he said simply, in a way that made me hate and love him a little more.
"Nothing," I say hating myself for not being able to get the words out.
He laughs me again, before saying "you're never gonna be able to tell me what's going on are you?"
I don't answer that either.
"Well just do what you feel is best," he says taking a few steps forward before stopping and saying "mom is making butter biscuits, chicken and gravy tomorrow, maybe then you can tell me," then truly walking down the path.
His simple, few and sparse words repeat themselves in my head like song half remembered, until I knew what to do. Running down the path I had so many times before with a pail of water in one hand, I reached my mother's door. Our door. And stopped as my hands hovered over the door knob .
I should tell her, I shouldn't, but I should, but I shouldn't, but I should, tell her....Mother I need to leave your fields, your house. I chanted in my head.
And with that I opened the door,
"Mother-"
"Did you get the pail of water I told you." My mother asked, not raising her eyes of deep mahogany from her blue knit.
"Yes, b-"
"Now boil the water and start the roux, we'll need it for the Gumbo were cooking later. Loretta had a sale on shrimp and sausage this morning while you were sleep."
"Ok, a-"
Mother raised her eyes from her knit, only to give me a look I'd seen to many times before, like when I ventured out to far out the fields and ended up on the train tracks that carries bushels of wheat in and out of our town.
My words were robbed from me.
