Honeysuckle Vines and Sheila

Summer heat had dried out the yellow dirt making it drift and move on any breeze, preferably into my nostrils, it would appear.

Flies buzzed in the cotton plants and the sizzle of my head fed my ears.
The heat wafted and changed what I could clearly see into distorted waves that made me stare long range.
I kept shifting my feet, looking for a cooler spot, while drips ran from my scalp down my neck to my back, my spine now a small creek. Each footfall seemed to find yet another dirt pile and stir even more yellow air up to me.

“Been here too long waiting on Sheila,” I said to myself since the frogs were not paying me no mind.

“She promised she would come.” I thought.

But, I knew her old man to be a stickler for rules and commands. He quoted scripture on Sunday, but forgot it on Monday.

The Combines and Tractors were still and quiet, as this was Sunday near noon. They were the only color in the field, separate from the soft lines of cotton, dirt, and sky, they were only hard lines of green and black.

Sheila and I had a common interest in something that was bigger than the farm, but neither knew how to rise, swim or claw our way out. Likely, we found each other like two bubbles in the sea, floating above the water, away from the others, hoping there was something other than the farm and the cotton.

I still smell the honeysuckle vines, and the plants, I still feel that dirt in my eyes, nose, and ears. My heart still feels the pain of finally realizing Sheila was not going to come, and I had a long way to make it home before dark, without the kind smile, or the glassy eyes, the kind words, maybe the furtive touch of the pinky on hand.

Young heart, full of hope and fear, and the long walk home.

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