Roots

The screen door slammed shut behind us; its familiar whine drowned out by the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Grandma stood at the sink, her hands wrist-deep in soapy water. She turned as we entered, and, shaking her head, she said, "Looks like someone's been conspiring with the scarecrow again. '

Photo: Patricia Lambert

Grandpa winked at me, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt on my cheekbone like he was polishing an heirloom. "Caught red-handed," he said, snapping his suspenders with a flip of his thumb. "But I reckon Ol' Tom'll keep our secrets." He nodded toward the window, where outside, in the field, the scarecrow's silhouette stood sentinel in the twilight- if only we could see that far. I imagined that his face turned toward the house as if listening.

I pressed my nose to the cold glass, fogging it with my breath. Beyond our reflection, the last ot the daylight pooled in the hollows between the hills, turning the pasture into a quilt of violet shadows. Something moved at the end of the chicken coop- a deer, maybe- or just the wind combing through the tall grass. The moon was full, and the fireflies were out in droves.

Grandpa Suttom said, "See how the dark don't swallow the land whole? It just tucks in in-- gentle like a blanket."