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The Authentic Eclectic
Lost in the Field
Briars joined the wooden fence posts. Framed between the branches of two juniper trees, the field stood still in filtered light, colors washed out by the rain: umber, rust, tan, earth, and a faint intimation of green.
She thought of Indian corn. There was a plant called Indian paintbrush, but she did not know its appearance. And wasn’t there a horse coat known as paint? It seemed that it would rain again. She had a childlike longing to stand under the fall.
“When you were little,” croaked her father, whom she’d heard enter the kitchen but ignored in favor of the landscape, “we used to go out in those fields to pray.”
“I know,” she replied, hoping to head off a rehashing of memories she’d heard dozens of times; but, like most old people, even if he noticed her effort, he would barrel on. Would she be this way in thirty years? She already remembered times when people had tried similarly to head her off, but she kept speaking through excitement. That was the scariest thought: to notice, but not care.
“We’d turn our faces up to the sky, to God, and ask him to watch over us and your mother and brothers…”
Hannah swiveled in the wooden chair. “Let’s go now.”
