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Fallow Field
where she left it, out by the old shed, breeding rust obscured from the roadway by the rye grass that grows up all around. Long triangular tentacles blowing and bending in the hot breeze, as sunlight filters in through gathering clouds. By now the grass has worked up into the engine block. The car, was it an old Chevrolet or Buick? No matter, it's all that is planted now, in this fallow field, awaiting bulldozers. They call this grass "poverty grain," and there's no small comfort in the fact that it's as tolerant of poor soils as she was of the poor soils of her marriage. On the day she left, she packed her whole life into an old grip: clothing, a few framed photographs of the children, her parents, the salt cellar she'd bought on her honeymoon in Rome. While packing, she'd given pause that her whole life had become so neatly compact, portable, where once there'd been permanence. And now, she blows and bends with the rye grass on a midsummer afternoon, so far from home, so far from the old shed of her former self. Scott Edward Anderson, © 1995 |
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