Ma'.

I grew up in the middle of nowhere. You could step right off the rotten, wood front porch and see nothin’ for miles, save for some cattle and potatoes. 

And dirt poor, too.

My normal was second-hand britches, bunched awkwardly for hand-sewn patches, and cold feet caused by socks riddled with holes and caked with dirt and clay.

We worked hard, seen in sweaty brows and achin' legs. I was born with one limp, lame arm, but I never let it hinder me.

Monday through Friday, my sister and I tended to the crops, though she typically wandered to the barn and could be found crouched behind a stall, brushin’ the smaller cows with Mama’s comb. Ma’ would smile, watchin’ from the field across from the one we was supposed to be workin’, as my sister would, without much grace at all, tiptoe towards the animal pens.

Though the weekdays were busy, Saturday and Sunday were an entirely different ordeal. Every weekend, my Ma’ would fuss over my sister, desperately scrubbin’ the dirt out of her Sunday dress with a wet rag, while I sat at our small kitchen table, face against the sun-warmed window.

My Pa' would come down the hall, heavy boots clunkin’ against the hardwood floor, and run a hand through my hair that Ma’ had spent a long while tryin’ to get to sit in place. 

He would grab one of the cold rolls Mama had made for breakfast the mornin’ before and sit down on the run-down couch, kickin’ up his feet and reachin’ for the Bible on the coffee table. 

I got no education except for the knowledge naturally acquired by livin’, survivin’, and lovin’.

My Pa', god rest his soul, though he couldn’t count for nothin’, made sure we were happy, and that was enough.

October 17th, 1963, I died. 

I pushed open the screen door, chilled wind nippin’ at my exposed arms. I dart back inside to grab Pa’s thick, woolen jacket and slip it on my small frame, zippin’ it up tight. The door closed behind me with a snap and I started on the path leadin’ to the tool shed, legs tremblin’ against the harsh breeze. I heave open the shack’s door, peakin’ inside to find the mud-covered pail.

My good hand, rubbed raw from the cold, grips the handle as I approach the well.

Droppin’ the bucket into the mud surroundin’ the water hole, I stand on the tips of my toes to remove the wooden coverin’. 

I quickly tie the rope to the pail handle, bringin’ my hand to my mouth and huffin’ hot breaths into my palm.

As the pail lowers, I feel a harsh tug on Pa’s jacket. 

I look down, puzzled as all, and notice the wool on the sleeve coverin’ my lame arm has gotten caught on the handle of the bucket. 

I jerk backward, but I can’t get far, the limp arm connectin’ me and the well. 

As my feet leave the ground, I desperately writhe, bare feet grippin’ at cobblestone. 

My chest rises and falls as quick as ever, white puffs of air cloudin’ my vision.

I feel the bitter wind around me, my hair risin’ as I’m whipped through the air.

I hit the piercin’ water with a splash, and I rise above the surface, gaspin’, flailin’.

I grip at the ragged stones surroundin’ me, but the moss is too wet, too slippery.

I can feel myself sinkin’.

I can feel myself turnin’ blue.

The first week after I died, my sister’s knees became blemished, as she was now expected to take up her portion of the work, and mine. I think she was angry, frustrated with me for not bein’ there, and Mama for crackin’ down on her.

Now, Mama, it struck my Mama like a hot iron, stingin’ and burnin’. Leavin’ a mark.

I watched Ma’ become cold. I watched lines form on her forehead, and her smile settle into a grimace. I watched her hair tangle and mat, comb forgotten in the barn. 

On the first Sunday after I died, I watched my Mama lose herself. 

The mornin’ was young and crisp as the sun rose slowly over the small farmhouse.

Ma’ sat on a stool, pony-tail holder in one hand, and my sister's long, dirty blonde hair in the other. 

My sister began to cry out like she would when Mama got too rough. 

Ma’ went wild. 

I think she had lost just enough, too early, too soon. 

She threw down the hair-tie, flingin’ an arm to knock the Bible off the coffee table. 

She began to kick and scream, thrashin’ like nothin’ I had ever seen.

My sister stumbled back, droppin’ her favorite, tattered doll in her haste to escape Mama’s crazed limbs.

Pa' came in, hurried and urgent, boot’s still clunkin’, and no hair of mine to run his fingers through.

His attempts to calm her did nothin’.

She didn’t stop screamin’ for a long time.

They didn’t make it to church that mornin’. Or the Sunday after that, and even after the Sunday after that one, too.

One year after I died, our house became loud.

Frequently would Pa’s face twist in anger, growin’ red as he hollered at Mama. 

One random Tuesday, I watched him fill an old suitcase he stashed underneath their bed with his finest overalls and put it into the backseat of his red pickup truck. Ma’ wailed, holdin’ onto his arm to pull him back inside, to pull him back home.

Still, he marched forward, shovin’ Mama to the ground with a swipe of his arm.

I saw him pull out of our dirt driveway, and I never did see him again.

Two years after I died, it was quiet. 

Ma’ hardly left her bedroom, her body becomin’ skinny and frail. My sister took care of her as best she could. She brushed Mama’s hair though it fell out in clumps, landin’ by their feet like the apples from the old fruit tree that grew by the side of the house.

She worked both fields now, as well as lookin’ after the animals, too. Dirt seemed to rest permanently underneath her fingernails. 

It was three years, then five, and my sister was leavin’ after ten. She had to leave Mama, just like Pa’ did. She needed to live.

She left durin’ the night, trudgin’ to the beat-up car she had saved up for from sellin’ our crops, milk, and meat. She wiped at her tears, shovin’ what little money she had into the middle console.  

Then it was just Ma’.

I think she knew when she woke that mornin’ she was alone. I’d like to think she was at peace as she lay there for two more days, maybe three. She no longer kicked and screamed, she didn’t cry.

The sun rose and fell, illuminatin’ the cracks in the wooden farmhouse. 

And it was quiet.