Milk

Sensitive content: death of immediate family member

On a cold January day, Spencer seen his mother, alone, and thought about all the sacrifices she made for him in the past. It was a cold windy morning where he awoke alone in his oversized bed. The image of a woman caught in a storm as black as the night was fresh with lucid description from the dream he just had. She was standing in front of him, golden hair unkept swaying to the side, wisping away the negative energy of an impossible wind. He knew who she was, but didn’t recognize her. There was something about the way she looked at him.

He was cold and coverless. It was a restless night. Spencer looked at his clock to find no numbers. His electricity went out overnight. It was late. He was late. He jumped out of bed to grab his watch and a fresh outfit. He had plans to meet his dad for lunch. He took a quick shower and brushed his teeth. He made it to the kitchen to hear a loud beep from the microwave as the electricity came back on. His house would be warmer when he made it back home.

He lived on the outskirts of a small town surrounded by small ponds frozen over and crumbling barns. They passed out of view with the speed of his vehicle. He remembered his first year at home, watching excavators digging out the ponds from his front porch. The rain filled up the deep hole in the ground as the year went on. Farmers wish for a good harvest, but ranchers need water for their horses and cattle to drink. He didn’t know his neighbors, but he often bought food from the market that they supplied. He imagined the day the ranchers’ cows would grow old enough to supply milk to the market as well. Before moving to town, Spencer had never tasted soybeans before, but the farmers stocked the shelves with great supply, one he dared not complain about. He brought a bag of soybeans he roasted the previous night with him to give to his dad, someone who had similar taste to him.

Making it to the restaurant, Spencer noticed his dad was sitting at a table in a far corner. He stood to greet him. “Sorry your mom couldn’t be here.”

Spencer had grown used to his dad’s awkwardness when it came to his mom. They ate in silence as they always did.

As they were leaving Spencer’s dad grabbed a bouquet of flowers from his back seat and gave them to Spencer. “These are for your mom.” He sighed as Spencer grabbed them. “You don’t have to tell her they were from me.”

Spencer hugged his dad. “Are you alright, dad?” Spencer watched him leave. He forgot to give his father the beans. He decided to go see his mom.

As hard as it was for Spencer to admit it to himself, he didn’t go see his mom enough. His parents were married traditionally and followed the religion of the church Spencer grew up in, waiting to have kids until after the ceremony. They had him baptized at only a year old in their small church hidden out in the woods somewhere. His mother’s family didn’t raise her as a Christian, or any other religion for that matter. They respected the land, and the land provided what they needed. That was enough for her until she met his dad. Some of that must have rubbed off onto Spencer somehow even though he, like his father, followed the Christian faith. He started snacking on the roasted soybeans on his way to deliver the flowers. Spencer felt obligated from an early age to hold himself with the dignity of a young baptism by attending church every Sunday. It wasn’t the same church as the one he grew up in, but he had fond memories from youth of his parents leaving him in Sunday School with kids his age to learn about God and the sacrifices Jesus made for everyone by coloring pages with His image on them. Sometimes he held a staff. Sometimes he carried sheep. The pictures always ended up the same. An orangish color for his body with a red or blue band wrapped around him. There was always a bright shining sun with brilliant rays of light he would color yellow. The youth teacher was an elderly woman, the wife of the pastor if Spencer remembered correctly. There was play time afterward. This was when she would separate the large group of kids into two smaller groups while saying God’s children have power in numbers. Spencer was young and wasn’t sure what that really meant at the time.

After the short ride, he parked his car and debated taking his mom the beans. Would she appreciate them as much as he knew his dad would? He grabbed the flowers out of the passenger seat. Spencer walked through the gates then walked some more up a gravel driveway. He veered off the path into a grassy yard and knelt in front of a gravestone. A heart engraved on the top right corner with a passage that read Wife and Mother. His mother’s name, birth and death date covered most of the rest of the display.

He couldn’t remember her face or her voice. He knew he was too young to be at the hospital when she was sick. His dad had told him the story. She was young, too young. Together his parents decided if things were ever to get bad that they would pull the plug so the grieving process could continue in a healthier way. Until Spencer knew, he wondered how his dad could go on living like it was better this way.

His dad, the person who raised him, who let Spencer’s mother go, was hard to have a good relationship with. But, as Spencer grew, he realized that most of the problems with their communication came from a place of misunderstanding, and words that were never said. He placed the impressive display of flowers in front of the stone and bowed his head. We miss you mom; he projected into the empty space around him.

The trees swayed and cracked against one another around the outside of the church’s gravesite. Birds startled, lifting out of the thickest depths of the surrounding forest squawking and cooing in defiance of the wind. The brown, dead leaves blew across the neatly trimmed field. He stood up and looked around where space was left for his mother’s family, his family, a place for the people he cared about most. On a cold January day, Spencer seen his mother, alone, and thought about all the sacrifices she made for him in the past.