Just A Pinch...

In my twenties, life was exciting. It was about potential, setting up the perfect serve, drinking from life's cup in big sloppy gulps. In my thirties, life was about working hard, striving for one more rung on the ladder, making what I wanted happen through one more all-nighter. In my forties my perspectives on life changed. I looked around and while I could say it was 'good,' I realized a few things: Life is precious, nothing turned out like I thought it would and that was okay. My enjoyment has taken on a different flavor. I savor more, sip instead of gulp, realize that even though it may have some burnt edges, it's still good enough to gobble up. Disappointments and disillusionment become another part of the meal instead of something to throw in the dumpster. Acceptance reins supreme.

It was in light of these revelations that I started thinking about what I want when I am old... Scratch that, not old. Seasoned.

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

• I want to own chickens. When I have no more desire to travel and see the world, I will gather to me chooks of all sorts and feed them in the setting rays of the sun, tossing seed upon the ground and smiling as they gobble it up. I will wear aprons with pockets and glory in the remnants of feed that find its way under my fingernails.
• I want to sit on the porch and sip my coffee in the mornings, reminiscing of the places I have been and the shoes that got me there. I will recall strolls down cobbled streets, paved cities and country roads. I will bask in the rising sun of another day and hold the memories like treasures to my breast. 
• I want to build blue bird houses and set them about my yard to watch as they swoop and dive, swirl and light. I want to listen to the cheep-cheep of chicks in the mornings as their parents bring them breakfast, the iridescence of their clothing shining like a mirage in the light of sunrise.
• I want to wear long tunics and palazzo pants, to sweep myself into a room with elegance and grace. I want to clothe myself in bright blues and greens and purples, reminiscent of a peacock in full regalia. I want to sparkle and shine and make people marvel at my fashion bravery.
• I want to laugh with my children, let their kids bounce upon my knee and ask me questions like, "What was it like when you grew up?" I want to see my kids as the incredible artists, hearts and philanthropists that they are. I want to be proud of them and still encourage them to stretch.
• I want to surround myself with Ya-Ya friends - You know the ones... Those that chuckle at our past adventures and begin stories with, "Remember that time?" I want to share bottles and bottles of wine into the late hours, sitting quietly together, gazing into firefly speckled darkness. I want to hold their hands, laugh at their verve, stroke their hair and cry in their laps.
• And when it is time for me to go, I want to do so in my own bed with my Love and my family at my side. I want to tell them how deeply I love them and listen to their favorite memories and I want to laugh my way into Heaven. With my last breath and my last gaze, I want to smile at the face of God, giggle one last time and know that I am home.

What a Writer Wants

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

Have you ever wondered what it takes to love a writer? It all starts with knowing what we want... Here's a short list of my desires:

• A writer wants to connect. When I sit to write, I do so as one speaking to a confessor, a confidant sworn to secrecy. I want you to understand and even resonate with what I am saying. I want to let you know and in turn, know myself, that we are not alone. Emotions and perspectives are unique but the same in so many ways. I am revealing myself to you.
• A writer wants to rant. Most of what I write I am dealing with on some level. That may alarm you if you have read any of my books or my shorts. That's okay. Be alarmed. A writer's rant, I can almost guarantee, means something completely different than you think it does. 
• A writer craves details. I am completely irritated and undone when I get the short answer. "What did you think of the book?" "It was good." Good? Seriously? What did it make you feel? Did it teach you anything? Don't tell me it was good! Tell me it was spectacular, it was horrifyingly boring, it was rancid. Description is a meal and words are the seasonings - FEED ME!
• A writer longs for truth. Whether in research or honest word choice or description of the hard scenes, a writer is searching out the truth of what they write. There is no worse feeling than reading something you know is not true. It is a slap in the face of your audience if you don't at least attempt knowledge of what you speak. Respect of their time is always at the top of my list.
• A writer wants quiet. This is a hard one for me to describe. Anyone that knows me as that other person, knows that I am less than a brooding, solitary soul. Still, in my writing life I have to have a sense of serenity. I need a quiet place, a few hours of my day unassailed by the noise of life: no television, no radio or music, no interruption to the process of writing. The noise in my head alone is so loud it often takes me days to quiet enough to get even a few words on the page. I have to have that stillness to make sense out of the static energy in my cluttered mind.
• A writer wants release. When I write, if I am paying close attention, concentrating on word choice and being demanding with my concepts, it is like having amazing sex. There... I said it. Any writer who tells you otherwise has either never had great sex or is lying to you.  When I put in the work, decide selfishly I will not stop until I am done, I feel as spent, as satisfied, as gloriously loved and attractive as I do after a naughty romp in the sack. It opens up my whole world to more! I am energized, confident and contented... I'm pretty sure I glow. That release of my story onto the page clears my head and allows me to move on with my day. If I am honest, that same release also keeps me coming back for more, because - well... Isn't it obvious?
• A writer wants stimulation. (No I'm not all about the sex today...) The death knell to any sort of creative juice I have is to sit stagnant, to let routine rule my life. I have begun to travel in my aged years (wink, I'm not all that old), and in those adventures have come to realize it fuels my writing mojo. The more I see, the more my mind opens up to the possibilities. The more I stretch my boundaries the more my mind stretches its imaginings. When I cannot travel, just a trip into a cafe where I can sit and observe, a little darkened bar in the middle of the day, a park bench under a canopy of trees... All of these become fodder for the page.
• A writer craves appreciation. There is nothing more heady than to be told someone is waiting for you to write another story, tell another tale, create another character. To be lauded by those who read my stories is a drug as addictive as heroine and the cravings can become destructive, especially when I have gone dry. If you know a writer in your midst, if you admire a blogger you lurk but never comment on, let them know you appreciate them. It may give them the courage they need to try a new character, to re-edit their last short, to finish!

You Can't Take It Back (Fiction, Long Post)

They stood facing each other, the air thick around them, crackling with tension. They stood and stared. Her chest heaved, up and down, her arms slack at her sides, her mind a whir of confusion and hurt. She was finding it hard to breathe. The silence rushed in on her, filling her ears like rushing water, the beat of her heart pounding loudly against the void. The air seared her lungs and burned all the way down to her soul. She felt the ache in her heart squeeze hard at her chest. The heat that had powered their argument was cooling quickly and she felt the rise of bumps along her arms and legs.

She watched as his eyes registered regret, then stubborn resolution; he didn’t look away. She continued to stare, to search his weathered features, to try to recognize the man she’d married. The boyishness was long gone, vanished with his compassion for her. Somewhere along the road they had traveled that young man had been replaced with greying hair at his temples, haggard lines on his cheeks and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. At this moment he was no longer someone she recognized. She let her gaze fall to his clenched fists, his expanded waistline, his faded jeans. When had he left her? Had she pushed him away? Was this somehow her fault?

Her ears were still ringing with the words. She drug her eyes back to his face, searching for any sign of a coming apology. There was none. She held her breath for short bursts, knowing each time she released the air and took another it might be the one that sent her sobbing. She vowed she wouldn’t do that yet, not here, not in his presence. Her pride wouldn’t let it happen where he could watch.

She forced a small, tight smile and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She tried to force her mind to make sense of what he’d said. What exactly had he said? Could she recall the words, or only the pain? The sounds of them, swift and sharp, had stuck to her like darts, stinging and hurtful. She wanted to pluck them out, throw them to the floor, tell him to say it again, but her request stayed walled behind a fortress of teeth and lips. If she unclenched her jaw and tried to speak she would surely crumble.

A shiver slunk down her spine, her gut wrenched painfully and she fought the urge to vomit. Only now did his face spark a sliver of concern. He extended his arm to reach for her. She turned, denying him any touch.

“Don’t,” she managed through the grind of her jaw.

“I-“

“You’ve said enough.” It was those few words that broke the dam on her tears. They ran down her cheeks, hot and salty. She swiped quick at her face with the back of her hand and turned to walk away, “I have work to do.”

He spun her around by her arm so that she had to work to maintain her balance. She stared at his hand on her skin, tight enough to push flesh through the gaps, until he let her go. The print of his hand on her remained, pink against pale. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She rubbed her arm where he had touched her, “No. You meant it, or you wouldn’t have said it. We always mean the things we say, whether we should say them or not.” Her voice was quiet, deliberate, cool.

She stared at the floor, silence yawning lazily between them now. She was suddenly exhausted, bone tired and mentally weary. Although she struggled to move, she felt an incredible lightness; a floating, twisting, bobbing along that should have caused her alarm. She couldn’t bring herself to register the angst. She was drained. She wished she could be washed away with the tide she drifted on now; to be sucked out to oblivion would be less painful.

She moved on unsteady feet back to the table and sank heavily into her chair.

“I am sorry.”

“Me too,” she forced herself to look back into those eyes. “Is it enough? Is being ‘sorry’ enough?”

He reached for his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He met her gaze as he placed his hat back on his head, “I don’t know.”

He searched her face, his grey eyes flicking along her features. What was he seeing? Her age? The woman she once was? Did he find what he was looking for? He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. For only a moment he hesitated and then was gone, pulling the latch home with a click.

“Me neither,” she whispered as the tears cascaded down her face unfettered.

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

Eye of the Beholder (Fiction, long post)

As previously promised, I am warning readers that this particular post has some steamy bits. On a scale of 1-5 (1 being "low description romance" and 5 being "burn your eyebrows off") it is mild at a 2.

She lay there, let her breath settle and her heart beat return to a steady thump in her chest instead of a pounding in her ears. Her head lay cradled in the crook of his arm, her own arm across his chest, still heaving breath after breath into his own lungs. The air was close around them, no breeze through the open window above them, only sounds from the street below.

His hand trailed along her skin, touching her arm gently, sending goose flesh raising after each caress. Her body rippled with an uncontrollable shiver. She watched his manicured hand, his knuckles untouched by age, the downy hair on his arm not yet crinkled by time. It was a marked contrast to the crepe-y lines along the crease in her elbow, the age spots freckled in her tan. She stroked the smooth skin of his chest, touched the inky places and traced the pictures. He was so remarkably smooth, unlined. She sighed as he grasped her hand in his.

“Hmm?” The silkiness of his voice reminded her he was not sleeping, only resting. “What is it? What are you thinking?” He raised her hand and kissed her palm softly, sensuously.

Only youth asks that question, her mind snarked unkindly. “I am thinking many things, nothing in particular…”

“Liar.” Always direct, always so sure of himself. Oh to be young again and so certain of your life and your world.

She curled her fingers around his hand, noticing they looked more and more like her mother’s hands. It was unsettling, this aging thing she did. It was stealing her confidence, squashing her desire to be seen with it’s ugly, wrinkled, leathery march across her body. She hoped it was not what he saw, but it was there; a shimmering mirage waiting to take permanent shape in the mirror. It was there.

“I wish I could see what you see.”

He chuckled deep in his firm chest, “See what I see? I’m not sure what you mean. Explain, please.” Again, he lifted her hand to his lips and nipped enticingly at her fingertips. She tilted her head to watch his tongue flick in and out of supple lips, tantalizing her body with this ghostly technique. He was ignorant of the struggle she waged, fighting the urge to pull her hand away. Confidence. He had it in spades.

“Concentrate,” he teased. “Explain what you just said.”

“Me. I wish I could see what you see in me.” She watched as his lips parted in mirth, perfect white teeth gleamed in the low light and her heart squeezed. She should never have said it. He would tell her now, and she didn’t really want an answer. That was the beauty of age: knowing when you don’t want the answer and valuing the sweet melancholy of silence.

“I see you.”

She waited, breath held against his side, thankful her hair covered her face. He laid her hand on his chest and resumed stroking her lightly as his other hand curled around her shoulder.

“I see who you want to be, who you became for someone else, who you don’t want to be but are anyway. I see so much more than the things you see about yourself.” He patted her hand reassuringly, his tone ringing lightly of condescension. “I see a beautiful woman that cannot decide whether to embrace herself or fade quietly away. I see that fight in you.” He rolled to his side, sliding his arm out from under her and propping himself on his elbow.

She peeked from below the cascade of her hair to look into his eyes. They searched her, deep brown and clear, his brow creased in concern for only a moment. His hair was tousled, hanging down his forehead in a daring curl of wrecked gel. She watched him as he traced the lines of her back, down her side to her waist, around the bottom of her buttock to her inner thigh. She could feel her skin flush and leap under his touch.

“I see you. I see more of you than anyone else, I bet.”

She chortled, “Well of course. I’m naked.”

“More than that,” He slapped her behind hard enough to crack the air around them. “I see the things that light you up: desire, exploration, contentment, satisfaction.” He abandoned tracing her body with his hand and took up instead with tiny, feathery kisses. “I see everything and I desire it all. Even those things you wish you could hide.”

She rolled to her back, letting her hair conceal all her features except her eyes. She watched as his face broke into a confident grin, his eyes refusing to leave her body. That gaze consumed her, devoured every feature hungrily. He laid his hand flat on her stomach, stroked upwards, between her breasts and back down. He pulled his palm off and used only the tips of his fingers, tracing the median line of her to the hollow at her neck, down around the pink of her nipple. She watched him smile as it rose to his caress, his hands tracing her breast from the top to its swell at her sides. Her back arched and she bit back the sounds that threatened to escape.

“I see your scars, inside and out,” he arched an eyebrow confidently, “I see your artistry, your failings, your perfection, your self-loathing. I see your interest and ennui…”

“Ennui?” She chuckled into the warm air of the bedroom. “Complicated word.”

“Yes, ennui. You do know what that means, don’t you?” He rolled atop her, propped above by his arms, biceps bulging with the effort. His knees pushed her legs open beneath him. “I see your boredom. I see it all and I have only one thought…” His gazed locked on her.

“Yes?” She breathed, not daring to take her eyes away from him. He drug her hair gently away from her face with a finger, exposing her to him in full. She was bare, makeup long gone to the dark sheets, crows feet and wrinkles and age spots in full bloom on her face.

“I want to own it, possess it, make it mine.” His mouth came down on hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth; filling it, demanding response, pulling heat and desire from her as easily as the rising sun. She could feel him lower to her, his chest pressing on her own, the hardness of him pulsing at her open thighs.

It can’t be that simple, her mind screamed at her. Its keening weakened within the crescendo of her body responding in force to his. She no longer fretted over holding in her stomach, turning her face to the light or softening the wrinkles at her eyes. She had no choice but to melt against his persistence, to surrender to the heat of the moment. Her body no longer cared to do anything but receive; her mind was another matter.

Perhaps this would be the last time, she mused. Perhaps this time he would awaken to the truth of her: aging beauty fading into the light of morning. Perhaps he would realize in the daylight, stark and revealing, that every drop of her youth had drained away, leaving only a desiccated husk of who she used to be. Perhaps he wouldn’t miss her when she slunk from his bed, shoes held in hand and the door pulled shut with a click as he slept.

Perhaps, but not yet.

“Hello?”

The word snapped her back to reality like a splash of cold water. She looked over to find her husband grinning at her as they lay in bed, side by side. His hand reached and patted her leg gently.

“What are you reading? You’re about to chew your lip to bits,” He stretched to tug her lower lip from her teeth.

“Just a book,” she looked wistfully down at the pages. She could see a thumb print in the cheap paper where she had held on a little too tightly.

“Going to give yourself sores if you don’t stop chewing your lip,” he turned back to the television. “Must be some book.”

“Just a fantasy. A fairy tale, I guess.”

“Hmmm,” he grunted, fumbling to pat at her leg through the comforter. “Back to reality.”

“Indeed.”

Unfolding

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

I write. I write all the time... And much are things I am reluctant to publish. I am reluctant because I write from a place that imagines all sorts of things. I write things I would never do. I write things I would do in an instant. I write the ugly things, the soft things, the silly things and everything in between.

I am good at what I do. Were I to write you, you would know. Observation and accuracy in description is a honed talent that all writers attempt to perfect. This becomes the dilemma, doesn't it? We write what we know or what we wish we knew. We, as writers, imagine what we would do and say if we could only break free. We write the hard things, the truth of things, because in life we cannot say or do them. In civilized life, we aren't allowed to do certain things, voice certain things, react certain ways. The thing is... Life-real life-isn't civilized. When a writer can capture the underbelly, the shocking rawness of life as it is lived, I am entranced. I love reading books like that.

A book that makes me cringe, that makes me envious, that tears out my heart and makes me watch as the last beat pulses in my bloody hand - THOSE books are the books that I love and that I want to read! They are also the books I want to write. I want you to read the words and be lost beyond all else. I want you to read and forget I wrote it. I want you to put down the pages breathing hard, head spinning, heart beating and want more. I want you to be driven into searching out another story, connecting with another character, desiring another page to turn.

It is very true that we write the stories we want to read. In my twenties I wanted fantasy. In my thirties I wanted nostalgia. Now, in my forties, I want reality. I want gritty, grainy, rawness of word. I want to feel something when I read. I want to learn and renew and regret nothing. If those things make you uncomfortable, if the land you want to explore has no potholes, no cliffs, no bone chilling wind, you should turn back now.

Over the next days I will be publishing some things I have held back. They are writings that will sometimes be erotically charged (I will warn you, but I am also not a porn writer, so breathe easy), they will be wistful and sad, they will be funny. I am not a woman of one singular taste, nor am I easily categorized. That is the nature of being human. It is also the nature of humanity to feel community, to know we are not the only ones who think the thoughts we think, feel the emotions we feel. We want to know that no one is "normal," that everyone is as jacked up as we are, at least for a time. That, I have come to learn, is the most valuable lesson in life: there is no norm for living. It's all a big, messy, twisty journey we are on and I refuse to deny its reality.

I appreciate your willingness to let me stretch from my box. I feel like I have been cooped up too long and need to open my arms, to elongate my spine from the bent and twisted pose I have contorted into. I am looking forward to running across the page... Let's open the door, shall we?

Diagnosed

Photo Credit: Shannon Derbique

I am afflicted. I would not categorize it as a disease, nor would I ever venture to say it is a hinderance, per-say. I only know that what I suffer from is real; as real as the necessity of breathing, the base requirement of food and genuine desire for companionship. I have the affliction of wanderlust.

As I have grown older, I have learned many things about myself. I have learned that I have an extremely low tolerance for ignorance. I have learned that I can become resentful and bitter far too easily. I have learned that my desire for peace far outweighs my desire to watch the news. Most of all, I have learned that I have a deep-seeded need to travel.

I feel it like a woman feels the quickening of a child in the womb. It starts as a low tickle, a flipping, rolling excitement in my core that threatens to burst forth with a war-like cry. I have tried to ignore it, to quell its rapid growth, but I have failed more times than I have succeeded. My whole body tingles with excitement and my skin rises in goose-flesh; anticipation threads through me from the nape of my neck to my ankles, curling the arches of my feet, making it difficult to sit still. It has a very real, visceral, physical quality to it that is nearly impossible to describe without sounding as if I am simply in need of a bathroom.

Deciding where to wander has been a delightful part of all of my adventures. As a kid in the 70s and 80s, our family trips were largely in the car to camp or sightsee. I traveled twice with family by plane to Maryland to visit my Dad's people and being a rude, barely tolerable teen I didn't glean much from the experiences. As I have aged, however, I have been exposed to the glorious world of travel via my husband who wanders around the States for work. Although the times I have accompanied him have been to see only the small confines of his job, it sparked in me an adventurous nature that I never saw coming.

In my wanderings I have discovered a new me; I have uncovered an adventurer clad in khakis and a jaunty pith helmet. She is the muse who drags me by the hand into tiny little wine bars to while away the rainy afternoons sipping wine and observing. She has beckoned to me from up ahead, weaving in and out of crowds to a quiet bench on the bay where I can sit for hours, the breeze off the water cooling my skin. She has sat with me in the petty cab as our driver chats about the people he sees and the diversity around him. I cherish her, this very different muse of mine, but she is no less insistent than her counterpart dressed in the pencil skirt and the stilettos. They both are extremely temperamental about being heard and heeded. They simply refuse to be ignored.

It is because of her that I am planning another trip soon; one that I did not see coming. It is an exciting adventure that I hope to complete with as much verve and curiosity as I have my forays into the Deep South. I will undoubtedly share the discoveries, whether here, on my Facebook page or in a new novel, but I will share them. Under the canopies of the Pacific North West I will take pictures, drink wine and fine coffee and ponder the lives of those who live there. I will quench the wanderlust, feed it full and put it to bed if only for a time. I know all too soon my muse will raise her head, pull on her khakis and don that helmet to drag me off again. I will go willingly.

I have an affliction. It is called "Wanderlust," and I hope you catch it too!

In Mourning Light (Long post, fiction)

The air was crisp, cooling her skin where the rough duck cloth of her coat didn't cover. Her bare feet slipped in the rubber boots, her toes curling to find purchase within. Dew from the early morning was soaking the hem of her little flannel night gown, slapping at her legs. If Mama knew she'd snuck out the back kitchen door she'd skin her alive.

The cold bluish light of dawn was all she needed to make her way to the big red barn. A soft yellow glow spilled out on the grass from the big door left open just a crack. He must be inside already, she thought. She hesitated a moment, but continued on despite the pell-mell beating of her heart. She had to see, even if she got in trouble. She just had to.

The galoshes made a soft sucking sound as she neared the opening to the barn, her feet sinking in the mud. She pulled them slowly from their prison and crept to the backside of the doorway, peering through the crack and holding her breath. A lantern burned not far from her, sitting like a sentinel on the dirt floor. She couldn't see him yet, but she could hear him.

She moved quickly, stealthy as a ferrel cat, around the big sliding door and into the shadows of the metal corrals. She crouched low and listened.

"Now c'mon, you rascal..." Daddy's voice was low, guttural and strained. "C'mon... Just a little bit. It'll make you feel better, I promise."

Trinity moved cautiously along the back wall of the barn, keeping to the shadowy darkness. She wasn't ready to talk to him yet. She didn't know if she was mad, exactly, but she wasn't ready to talk to him either. She started around the corner, peeking first to make sure she wasn't going to bump right into him.

"There ya go, fella. That's it," Daddy was bent in half, his broad back to her and the reason for all that grunting Trinity imagined. He was a big man, her daddy. A man's man, her Mama liked to say, although she wasn't sure what that meant. She started across the aisle way behind him, slowly and quietly, desperate to make the shadows once more.

Photo Credit: Jenny MacLennan

Suddenly he let out a groan, "C'mon, you scalawag!" The sharpness of his voice sent her scurrying for the corner faster than she wanted. The only thing that saved her from discovery was the bawling of the calf wedged between her Daddy's legs. They scuffled a moment as Trinity settled herself in the corner, pulling the duck coat around her legs as she sat, back against the wall to watch.

"One more time, lil fella. One more and I think you'll have it," she watched as he patiently pried at the calf's mouth with a thumb and inserted the big red nipple. The baby looked almost as tired as her Daddy.

Trinity scanned the barn floor and let her gaze settle on something in the opposite corner. A large blue tarp, mounded over a set of four stiff legs pooled in mournful disarray. That was her. Mama's bottle calf from when they were first married. She looked back at the puffing figure of her Daddy and the little bull calf suckling the bottle he held. She watched as the milk in the container slowly drained and the wild look of the baby calmed as his tummy filled. Silently he let the nipple flick from his upturned mouth, white foamy stuff making a smiley face on his soft black muzzle.

He stared at her there in the shadows, searching her out, making her fear discovery. She pulled her knees in tighter and peered at those soft brown eyes as her Daddy's legs opened and released him. He didn't move right away, just stood tottering there as if he'd accepted that would always be his home.

Her daddy tilted his hat back, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and the same colored duck coat she wore. His big frame slid down the wall of the barn as he sat in the dirt next to his charge. He spoke softly to the calf, so soft and low Trinity couldn't make it out. His big hands, calloused and hard, stroked the little bulls neck and back as gently as he touched her and Mama.

She shifted in her position against the wall and the calf snapped his gaze to her. Daddy finally looked into the shadow and found here there, crouched tightly and now shivering against the chill.

"C'Mere," he motioned with his hand and patted the ground next to him, too tired to sound gruff or even move.

Trinity stood slowly and made her way around the corrals to her Daddy's side. She slunk down to sit in the dirt beside him and he pulled her across his lap, cradling her in his wide arms. She warmed almost immediately as the two sat silently for a minute, not saying a word.

"Millie's dead, isn't she Daddy?"

"Yes, Puddin', she is." Trinity scanned his face. His eyes were closed, his head leaned back against the wooden wall and as small as she was she could feel exhaustion flood off of him.

"That her calf?"

"Yup."

"Mama's sad."

"I know. I'm sad too."

Trinity shook her head, "No Daddy. You can't be sad. You yelled. I heard you."

His eyes slowly opened and he scanned her face before he spoke, "Of course I'm sad, Trinity. Yelling don't mean I ain't sad. Only means I feel so sad I don't know how else to talk."

She looked him over, contemplating this revelation. "You yelled because you're sad? That don't make sense, Daddy. You're a big strong man and you only yell when you're mad."

He looked past her to watch as the calf nosed at the tarp and let out a bawl. He squeezed his eyes shut as the noise subsided, "Puddin', big strong men yell for a lot of reasons. Very few of them are because it makes sense."

The little bull tottered over to them, stretching out his nose to Trinity and blowing softly to smell her better. She reached a tentative, chubby hand to him and watched as he investigated her fingers for milk.

"Can we call him Milton?"

"If Mama says it's ok," He scratched the little head that pulled away suddenly, sending the baby careening backward on unsteady legs and landing in a pile not far from them.

She giggled quietly and pushed her cheek into the canvas of his coat. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him: mud, cattle, blood, dung. "Are you sad because Mama is sad?"

"Yup."

"Me too."

"We need to go back to the house before she finds you missing, Trinity." Daddy scooped her up and set her on her booted feet as he took her hand. "Let's close up the corral for now. I'll let you feed Milton in an hour or two."

"Okay."

He pulled the big cross aisle gate closed and they watched as Milton settled down next to the tarp, his wild baby legs tangled underneath himself, his brown eyes watching them go.

"I wanna help you bury her, Daddy."

He hesitated.

"Mama's too sad, but I wanna help. She was a good cow."

His big hand slapped gently at her back and he pulled his hat down low on his eyes. She was sure he did it so she wouldn't see the tears, but she saw them anyway. Daddy didn't say anything, just nodded real quick.

Trinity watched Milton over her shoulder as she called back, "We'll be back, Milton. You hang tough."