harder than ever to stay in the same place, struggled to fall behind slower than we might have otherwise, as crop prices dropped and the cost of everything else went up. We’d never have survived without my job, my commute across town every day of the school year, my long hours. Without that, we would have been finished decades ago.
I kick off the shoes and put my feet in the damp ground, run soil through toes, break leaves and stalks of tomatoes to smell the perfume of fine green hairs, scent of my homeplace and heritage. There are two parts to me: earth and sky. Let me think through the land for now, for a while, for the last hours of my life in this house, however many days they may last. Let me find my way to a reckoning of how it came to pass.
After selling the land to Krovik, paying off the ocean of debt to the banks, I still found myself robed in an almighty blanket of money. But it was stamped and stitched together with blame: self-blame, worst kind of blame. Rebekah said it was the only rational choice given the circumstances: “You have to be reasonable, and look at the thing logically. You sell this land and you don’t ever have to think about working again, not ever. You get out of debt for the first time in your life. You say screw the government for not recognizing our claim. You say fuck the bigots and the neighbors who never helped. You leave it all behind, mom, and you get a more secure retirement. You get yourself free from worry about bills and food. No more crusts, like you’re always saying. Instead, you can buy what you really want.”
Rebekah has always thought she knows what I
really want
, but she could never imagine that what I most want now, and even in those weeks after her father’s death, was for Donald Washington to climb out of his coffin, scratch through six feet of dirt, come home, sit next to me on the porch, and for the two of us just to rest there, swinging in silence and laughter, for a good year or two. I might be able to stand it if I could have those two years of Donald and me just sitting together, not worrying about land or crops, two years to get used to the idea of him not being here. I told Rebekah there was no way she was putting me out of my house.
“No one is saying you have to move,” she said. “You can keep this old house, stay here long as you can.”
I looked at my daughter, shifty-eyed Rebekah, and knew she couldn’t wait to get me in a retirement home. I told her she should put to rest any ideas about powers of attorney and health proxies, because I will go out looking after my own affairs, making my own arrangements, ushering myself to the grave, through grace and in the company of the dead who have preceded me. The mistakes I make are my own.
“Oh Lord, mom. I’m not making you go anywhere,” she said, finger-wagging, swivel-armed. “Tell Krovik you want to keep the house and half an acre around it, but you can’t keep all this land. Krovik’s made you a
good
offer. It’s honest money. There’s nothing wrong with selling something you don’t need anymore once it’s served its purpose. Let the land turn into something else. He wants to build houses, so let the fool man build houses. If you don’t, you’re going to lose it all anyway, and have nothing to show for it.”
But this land was made for farming. It’s not suitable for houses. It has secret, sliding ways.
“Come on, mom, get real. This land is just plain old
tired
. It’s been
tired
for a long time. There’s nothing mystical about it. Let the land rest. Let it do something else for a century. Be pragmatic, like you always said you were. Sell up, sit tight, find something to occupy your time.”
I should have told Rebekah how much I need this land, the way the rock, soil, and trees are not merely the only home I’ve ever known, but
are
my bones and blood and limbs. All my dawns I’ve woken with this land in my nostrils, lived with it every day each day, gone to bed at night
I kick off the shoes and put my feet in the damp ground, run soil through toes, break leaves and stalks of tomatoes to smell the perfume of fine green hairs, scent of my homeplace and heritage. There are two parts to me: earth and sky. Let me think through the land for now, for a while, for the last hours of my life in this house, however many days they may last. Let me find my way to a reckoning of how it came to pass.
After selling the land to Krovik, paying off the ocean of debt to the banks, I still found myself robed in an almighty blanket of money. But it was stamped and stitched together with blame: self-blame, worst kind of blame. Rebekah said it was the only rational choice given the circumstances: “You have to be reasonable, and look at the thing logically. You sell this land and you don’t ever have to think about working again, not ever. You get out of debt for the first time in your life. You say screw the government for not recognizing our claim. You say fuck the bigots and the neighbors who never helped. You leave it all behind, mom, and you get a more secure retirement. You get yourself free from worry about bills and food. No more crusts, like you’re always saying. Instead, you can buy what you really want.”
Rebekah has always thought she knows what I
really want
, but she could never imagine that what I most want now, and even in those weeks after her father’s death, was for Donald Washington to climb out of his coffin, scratch through six feet of dirt, come home, sit next to me on the porch, and for the two of us just to rest there, swinging in silence and laughter, for a good year or two. I might be able to stand it if I could have those two years of Donald and me just sitting together, not worrying about land or crops, two years to get used to the idea of him not being here. I told Rebekah there was no way she was putting me out of my house.
“No one is saying you have to move,” she said. “You can keep this old house, stay here long as you can.”
I looked at my daughter, shifty-eyed Rebekah, and knew she couldn’t wait to get me in a retirement home. I told her she should put to rest any ideas about powers of attorney and health proxies, because I will go out looking after my own affairs, making my own arrangements, ushering myself to the grave, through grace and in the company of the dead who have preceded me. The mistakes I make are my own.
“Oh Lord, mom. I’m not making you go anywhere,” she said, finger-wagging, swivel-armed. “Tell Krovik you want to keep the house and half an acre around it, but you can’t keep all this land. Krovik’s made you a
good
offer. It’s honest money. There’s nothing wrong with selling something you don’t need anymore once it’s served its purpose. Let the land turn into something else. He wants to build houses, so let the fool man build houses. If you don’t, you’re going to lose it all anyway, and have nothing to show for it.”
But this land was made for farming. It’s not suitable for houses. It has secret, sliding ways.
“Come on, mom, get real. This land is just plain old
tired
. It’s been
tired
for a long time. There’s nothing mystical about it. Let the land rest. Let it do something else for a century. Be pragmatic, like you always said you were. Sell up, sit tight, find something to occupy your time.”
I should have told Rebekah how much I need this land, the way the rock, soil, and trees are not merely the only home I’ve ever known, but
are
my bones and blood and limbs. All my dawns I’ve woken with this land in my nostrils, lived with it every day each day, gone to bed at night
Similar Books
