"𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴.. 𝘶𝘮, 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯... 𝘸𝘦𝘣𝘴!"
"𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴."
Amelia was raised on sweet tea and Sunday mornings, but after the untimely passing of her father, her family trades Texas wheat fields for...
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Bundled up in a coat, Amelia holds up a wooden post, about two-and-a-half, maybe three feet tall. The four o'clock sky was covered in light grey clouds, which makes work easier for Amelia because she doesn't have to shield her eyes from its intensity.
Amelia pushes down on the wooden post, jumping up and forcing all her weight onto it. As much as she wants the fence post to dig itself into the dirt, it won't, and she's not strong enough to get it to stay upright.
Her dad pats her shoulder with a glove, hammer in his opposite hand. "You ain't getting that any lower, sugar." He chuckles. "You weigh 'bout as much as my lil' pinky."
Amelia scrunches her face up in sass, and when she moves away from the log, it keeps its place. Her hands shoot in the air, then point straight to the wooden post, which she has successfully pushed into the ground. "Haha! I did it, take that, pa."
"I've had cows heavier than ya, Meils," Her Dad kicks the dirt around the post. Amelia looks quizzically at him as the dirt becomes packed into the ground, dead grass flattened around his boots. "Kick the post."
"I ain't kickin' the post."
"Just kick the post, Melly."
Amelia shuffles up to the post, giving it a tiny kick. A smile creeps its way onto her face. It falls right when the post does.
"Wind could knock that over, silly. It's gotta be deep in the dirt, otherwise, it ain't staying up." Her father sets an arm on her shoulder. "Some things can't stand up without support, and you've gotta help 'em when they're struggling. They just need a lil' extra care. But, it turns out in the end." Her dad takes a step back from Amelia- who steps to the left herself. His gloved, cold hands pick the wooden post up and pressure it into the dirt before hammering it down and having Amelia throw dirt back into the hole dug for the post.
Her eyes dully stare as the thinks numbly about his words. There hadn't been a moment of struggle where she needed them, but something in her mind made her place a glass box over those words. Safekeeping, perhaps, in case she ever needed them.
"Mel, you listening?" Her dad yells. Amelia shivers as she brakes from her thought-induced trance. She shamefully shakes her head.
Her father tosses the barbed-wire, which would have been strung through the post, to the arid ground as he walks to his F-150 truck. Amelia follows, sitting on the opened truck bed.
Her father takes off his gloves, clasps his calloused hands together before setting his elbows on the border of the truck bed. "You fifteen, now,"
Amelia sheepishly smiles, patting the tuck. "Imma start drivin' this soon, ain't I?" She jokes innocently. Her blonde hair is swept into her face by a light and chilly breeze. She swipes it away with one motion of her hand, a smile behind it. "Like Pres?"
