random etchings

Wheat

Jessie lay on her back gazing up at the bright blue sky through the ten foot high stalks of wheat. It was summer, she was warm and her belly was full—and that was enough. Above her, the field whispered in the wind, waving and rustling like there was a secret that it wanted her to know, if only she could listen better.

They would have a good harvest this year. She’d heard Daddy telling Mama so just last night. Harvest was coming fast, and with it days full of back breaking work. She could picture Daddy and her brothers in the field, scythes in hand, cutting row after row and acre after acre. She and Mama would come behind with her sisters, gathering the fallen shafts and binding them in golden bundles.

Then came the threshing, where everyone beat the downed stalks until the tiny seeds of wheat would fall to be swept up from the threshing floor. That was her favorite part, because it always smelled so good.

Uncle Harry ran the mill stone in town, and for one bag in every ten, he would grind their wheat except for the seed which Daddy stored in bags in the cellar. Then, all winter, they would have flour to make breads and cakes and donuts, which were her favorite.

In the distance, she could hear Mama calling her in. There were eggs to gather, floors to sweep, dishes to wash, but all of that seemed far away and unimportant. She wanted to lay motionless and listen to the wheat grow.