RED DIRT by Jack Frimet

BACK ON THE FARM. As you arrive you try to see if anyone is on the front porch. The car kicks up dust from the driveway, so you decide to stop and walk through the field. Dust isn’t great for the engine anyway. You feel the red dirt in your chest as you breathe in. It used to cake your mouth and nose, turning your spit red. It took a while for that to go away. You never thought you would see this place again, but it looks exactly like you remembered. Ma was nothing if not consistent. The grass crunches under your feet and you smell cows. It’s unpleasant. That’s new. It never bothered you when you were a kid. You feel the ant hills and pebbles under your feet. Those damn ants never went away, no matter how many hills you kicked over. You close your eyes, take two more steps, and you jump, landing right in the middle of the stream. So much for muscle memory. You remember digging the irrigation system with your brothers. Ma wouldn’t rent a digger so you had to do it by hand, and by the end, you could see the bones in your fingers. But you just taped them up and kept digging. Farm life. Honestly, once those callouses went away you forgot what that work was like. Ma told you that you can tell a lot about people just by their hands. You wonder what she’s gonna think of yours. You get closer and the heat starts to lighten up. The sun is down behind the mountain now. You would take your breaks at this time of day. Grab a drink and sit right where the sun meets the shade, that way it was dark enough to nap but still warm enough to enjoy it. You spent so much time napping in the sun that you could feel when the rain clouds moved in. Well, you learned that one the hard way. The hay bales seem smaller now. You must have gotten bigger. You know Ma would never change the baling system. As you get closer to the shed you see the windows are gone and the door isn’t closed. You try to shut it but it won’t budge. The tractors are gray. The paint is chipped and the dust is piling up. The green paint you lathered on every year is barely noticeable, and you see yellow foam protruding from the ripped seats. You turn around and head toward the house. The big tree still has the tire swing on it. At least that still looks like it’s in good shape. You think about sitting on it, but you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if it broke. So you just move on. Up two steps to the porch. You get a splinter from the old white bannister. You wonder if Ma is home, then you see a glass of iced tea with ice cubes still floating. Walk past the rocking chair. Open the screen door. Knock and wait.