I think there is nothing I love more than a warm summer breeze.
Aunt Em is standing at the worktable, her dark hands dusted in flour. She kneads at a lump of dough, but her movements are slow; there’s a tremor in her hands, a slight pinch of frustration between her brows.
I set the pail down by the sink and join Em at the table. “Let me help with that.” I dip my hands into the canister of flour. I sense her frowning at me. Henry and Em are nearing seventy, though looking at Em, you wouldn’t guess it. There’s wisdom in her eyes, but barely a wrinkle on her face. Still, age is catching up to both her and Henry. They’ve never known a day in their lives when they didn’t work hard and fend forthemselves. Getting help, let alone asking for it, is a foreign concept they do not like.
“It’s all right,” she protests. “I like kneading dough.”
“I like it too,” I argue, which isn’t true. I’ve been helping Em in the kitchen now for the better part of twenty years, but I have yet to acquire the passion for bread baking. It’s literally the most basic skill one needs to survive on the farm, and I do enjoyeatingbread, but the hours required to make it? The precision? The margin for error? No, thank you. I’d rather muck out the barn stalls.
With a knowing smile, Em turns away from me and joins Henry at the sink. Together, they examine the egg haul. There were fewer today than yesterday, and yesterday fewer than the day before. It isn’t time to worry…yet.
Though I don’t love making bread, itiseasy to get lost in the labor of it and as my hands move, my mind strays to a fantasy life where nothing is hard and everything is awash in color like Aunt Em’s painting.
It may be out there somewhere, but it won’t be for me. The farm needs me. Em and Henry need me. Who will tend to the animals when Henry can’t lift the feed bags? Who will haul the onions and potatoes into the dry cellar when Em can’t make it down the ladder?
I can’t leave them. I can’t leave the farm. And thinking about it makes my chest ache.
Henry unloads the eggs into the wire basket that hangs in the corner. Em checks the simmering pot of stew on the stove.
Outside, the chickens squawk at one another. In the distance, a dog bays.
“Dorothy,” Em says. “Could you make room for the pot? It’s about time for the dumplings—”
I have no time to respond.
There’s a loud crash, then a splash of searing heat on my legs.
I hiss in pain and lurch away as the stew spreads across the kitchen floor.
“Em!” Henry rushes over to her. Her hands are shaking, but there’s a flash of irritation on her face.
“It’s okay.” I dip down with one of our kitchen towels and start mopping up the mess. “I’ll take care of it.”
“All of it’s wasted.”
“We can make more,” Henry tells her.
“That was the last of the chicken, Henry. We can’t make more.”
I swipe at the mess on the floor, but it’s useless now. My towel is soaked and there’s still at least a half pot of broth to sop up.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Em says as Henry pulls her into his chest.
I watch from my spot on the floor as Henry murmurs to Em and she nods into him, keeping her resolve. They’ve always known what the other needs without either of them having to ask for it. When the grief washes over Henry, Em is there taking his hand. When Em has a bad day, Henry is there making her smile.
And often I am here, just on the outside looking in.
I’ve always felt welcomed by them, but in the back of my mind, there’s a voice that will never quite fade. One that says,At any moment, all of this could disappear.
When I started having panic attacks just after I turned thirteen, I began seeing a therapist who told me I had commitment issues. “You’re capable of love,” she said to me. “You just have to open yourself up to it.”
“I do love,” I argued.
“Do you?” she asked and then tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, regarded me with a look of introspection that made me squirm on the sofa.
Later, when I told Em about the conversation, she listened to me rant about how wrong the therapist was and then she said,You’ve protected your heart. No one can blame you. But if you’re ever ready to open up, you know Henry and I will be there.
I spent the next two days angry at my therapistandEm. I knew how to love. I did love Em and Henry.
