I grew up where the grass is tall and the tempers are short. My father, for example. He’s always had such a choleric disposition, his red cheeks constantly shining with frustration. He never had a solid reason for his temper, besides the flies that masked his boots and teased his eyes. They swarmed our land, circling around the animals noses and snouts. I was never irked by them, it’s not like they done brought a plague to our home. However, my mother would beg to differ. She hated them more than anyone. They’d swoop in and around her fluffy blonde hair while she was trying to cook. Shrieking and waving her arms, she wouldn’t continue until my father came in and shooed them away.
Despite the flies, my mother was constantly baking. Her cheeks were always rosy from the heat that drifted from the oven. At dinner she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I finished all of my food. But I never failed to leave behind the dry vegetables. They were grown by my mother and usually left a lingering taste of dirt. She couldn’t know I rejected them, she would throw a fit and go off on how “I don’t appreciate her good food.” But due to my refusal to eat them, I would have to slyly slip them under the table to my beloved dog, Bones.
Bones was a hefty dog with old glossy eyes. He got his name the first week we got him. I was dumping the sludge into the pig’s trough when I heard a high pitched screech. I jogged to the noise with my eyebrow cocked. When I reached the house my mother was howling with disgust.
“Would you look at this!” she wailed.
“What in the name of god is going on here?” My father said as he walked around the corner.
“Bones! Bird bones! I mean look at this!” she added pointing to the heap of bloody bones. The bird was ripped apart, each of it’s limbs were torn and dismembered. Dry blood stained the dirt around it. Right as my father went to clean it up, the pup sauntered out the front door, shame showing in his eyes. His mouth was lined with crimson and black feathers were sticking out of his new collar.
“I think we found the guilty party,” I said with a chuckle, I paused before saying “Hey maybe we should call him bones.”
“Call him whatever you want,” my mother said with her arms crossed, “But you best clean this mess up”
His fur was always musky from running around in the muddy field, and we eventually gave up on nice baths in the tub and resorted to pulling the hose out of the shack. My mother would turn the knob on full blast while I held the hose. My father would lean up against the wooden house with his arms folded, a sour look smacked across his unshaven face. As soon as Bones was washed the dog would trot over to my father, and comically shake all of the water onto him. My father, unpleased, would grunt and violently shake his finger at all of us. My mother hid a giggle behind her hand. He’d usually add some sort of comment like “Oh, I knew we shouldn’t have gotten a dog!” And then stomp off to the bathroom. My mother would wink at me before sauntering back to the kitchen. Bones and I would be left standing in the field, him looking up at me with his doggy smile.
I was a tall lanky kid with hunched shoulders and bony features. My dad didn’t like my thin arms and weak legs, but I did the chores just fine. He’d say “Boy, if you don’t get some meat on those bones I’ll have to feed you to the pigs.” As a small child I was scared that he was serious, and his furrowed brow made it even more convincing. Once I became a teenager it was easy to shrug off. I’ve always thought that my height helped with the farm work. I could brush the horses without risking my life on the old wobbly stool, and I could change the lightbulb in the crumbling shack easier than everyone else. Tell me to grab the brown sugar from the top shelf and I was fine, but tell me to “go talk to that girl over there,” and my brain goes to mush.
The idea of “friends” never intrigued me. I felt content knowing Bones was my only partner, and my allies were the swaying trees. This was a peaceful life. As I grew older I gained a couple friends, and found a few girlfriends. But with these friends I found I was happier living in solitude. Once both my parents died I moved back to the farm to carry on their duties. The food I made was not my moms food, and there was no grumpy father to judge my every move. It was lonely. I still had Bones, but even loyal dogs don’t last forever. When he died I buried him behind the shack, under the shade. Now I live alone. I walk in the tall grass and let my hand glide across the furry tops. My arms are sore and my head hurts. But I keep walking. Into the sunset, into the gleam of the moon, then into the sunrise. My old feet don’t stop, and I let the sky’s light envelope me and my memories.
