As the story goes, Aunt Em had just arrived in the city from the South. She had dreams of studying art at one of the universities. To earn money, she would paint colorful caricatures for the tourists.
But not that day.
That day she painted the handsome busker.
And when the sun began to set, Henry offered to buy her painting with all the money he had collected in his hat.
She said she’d take a cup of coffee instead and he could have the painting.
It now hangs on a nail by the kitchen table.
There is so much color in the painting. So much life.
It’s a spark of beauty in an otherwise vast, gray Kansas prairie.
But Uncle Henry doesn’t play anymore and Aunt Em doesn’t paint, and sometimes I wonder if they ever feel like they’re starving for what they’ve given up.
Farm life isn’t easy. We all know it. Wake up before the sun. Always on the go because a dozen or more animals count on you to feed and water them. Crops that must be harvested before they rot. Eggs to be collected. Backbreaking work until your body aches.
But why does it seem like all the spark has been drained out of Em and Henry? And did they see it coming?
I think that terrifies me most of all, the thought of waking up one morning, empty, everything I had leeched from my bones and absorbed by the unforgiving earth.
Backbreaking work aside, I am grateful for Aunt Em. I am grateful for Uncle Henry. And I am especially grateful for Toto. Even when he’s being a pain in the ass.
“Drop the rabbit, Toto.” The rabbit twitches in his jaws. It’s almost as big as Toto but that’s never stopped him. I’ve never met a terrier with such a thirst for blood.
Toto widens his stance, ready to bolt. The rabbit senses the ground beneath him and kicks out with his back legs. Finding no escape, he kicks harder, flinging dirt.
“Don’t you dare—” I say, but Toto very muchwould dare.
He darts off, carting the rabbit with him, the poor thing squealing in his jaws.
“Toto!” I shout.
“That dog is a menace.” Uncle Henry comes up behind me in the yard carrying a pail of eggs he’s collected from the barn. His pale Irish skin is pink from his work. He hasn’t gotten to the point in the season where his skin has given up and allowed itself to tan in the sun.
I am pale like him, but freckled, and somehow immune to the sun. I am always the shade of pale cream.
Turning to him, I squint against the sharp slant of morning light. “Suppose you’re right. At least he leaves the chickens alone.”
Uncle Henry snorts a laugh, but it quickly turns into a grimace. He sets the pail down and rubs at the small of his back. He won’t go to the doctor. Never enough money for that.
“Here, let me.” I swoop in and take charge of the eggs.
“I’m not an old man,” he says.
“Oh?” I raise my brows.
He frowns, but there’s a hint of a smile hidden beneath his mustache. “Well, old but capable.”
“Of course.”
“I can handle it,” he argues.
“I know you can. So can I.” I head for the house and Henry begrudgingly follows behind.
Inside, Aunt Em has all the windows open, creating a crosswind in the house. The curtains billow up, then rest, only to be caught again.
