WINNER OF THE JOSHUA WEINZWEIG LITERARY MERIT AWARD, GRADE 10
THE DAY WE VISITED FATHER ____________________________________________________________ by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 10 “Think it’ll rain today?” Liam shuffles the dirt as he walks. I doubt he’s particularly interested in the state of the weather, but I think on my answer. It’s funny. I’d wondered the same thing this morning. My red sweater was suitable for everyday late winter but would do nothing to shield me from pelting raindrops. Then again, if I picked my green rain jacket and it didn’t rain, I’d be left with a flattened sense of self-esteem and sweaty underarms. It was a complicated situation. Pressured by Mama’s impatience, I’d chosen the red sweater, though I still didn’t know if I’d made the right decision. So far I am doubtful—the sky not having darkened for the theatrics, and the air smelling thick, earthy. “I dunno,” I say, and Liam’s shuffling takes up our quiet. We’re stalling behind Mama, which I’m glad for. She would have a fit if she saw the dust covering Liam’s sneakers—barely a week old! It’s strange, she hasn’t scolded us for dawdling, and strange for us to be so slow. Perhaps it’s the accumulating smell of ozone clouding our minds. Perhaps it’s because we’re visiting Father. Until I find whether I’ve made the correct wardrobe decision, both are equal competitors in the running. This dirt path behind the house runs long, long, long. It seems to run even longer today, if that’s possible. Last time we’d gone to visit Father, the corn stalks grew to the left of the path—tall, swaying, packed in tight. I’d trailed my hand along their lined leaves, growing generously in return for my murmurs of encouragement. Now the ground is barren, still halffrozen with the memory of last winter. It’s fun to hop on the spots of ice. They crack sharp, spider webs running through the frozen water and wetting the bottoms of my dress shoes. I take the opportunity now to do so, but Liam doesn’t. I offered to drag the wagon behind us, me being stronger and older and all. But he’d taken offense to this. Oh well. I’d rather have my hands free anyway. When we visit Father, the ants are especially restless. They’ve lived inside my chest for some time now, and when they wake, they crawl over my insides, hugging my lungs until I can’t breathe. I pull my hair band around my fingers tight, tight, tight. I learned that if I distract the hurt to other places, it stills their marching. My toes bump into Mama’s heels, and I turn my face down to dodge her scowl. We’ve stopped near a brown patch of field, much the same as every other brown patch of field, and Mama bends over, searching. For one. For two. For three. She looks up and gives a curt nod. “Will it be long?” The words slip out. Mama says nothing. Her back stays turned to me, her shoulders broad and broader—with every gust of wind she manages to puff up even more. She waits, a scouting bird, as I help Liam take the cloth bundle out of the wagon and lay it upon the half-frozen ground. Our trowel is first to be unravelled. Then the baby wipes, the clothespins, and the small container. Our simple toolkit. Our unsuspecting toolkit. “We are testing the soil!” we’ll say to passersby, with our dirt-covered hands and our sweat-covered foreheads, “Harvest wasn’t what we hoped for last fall.” The whole walk here, my shoes have touched the ground heel first. Heel-toe. Heel-
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