The Empty Field

THE EMPTY FIELD

Standing frozen in this field, the bittersweet memories of a life cut short flooded over me and filled me with a sense of loss so overwhelming that I was afraid my flesh would implode into the emptiness of my soul. I hated this ground beneath my feet now, and that wonderful old farmhouse that had once been my oasis. I desperately wanted it to vanish forever from the face of the earth, and me along with it. This was my life, my cherished memories, my heritage, and everything that connected me to the people I loved. And right now I hated it more than anything in the universe. This little corner of the planet had once been my entire world, filled with love and happiness and promise. But right now it held only a pain beyond description, and the very proximity of it made me want to run away and keep on running until I couldn’t feel its pull any more.

Inhaling deeply, I could smell the damp sandy loam that clung stubbornly to the remnants of the roots that had been left after the loggers had cleared the pines and hemlock from this particular piece of ground. It had been tedious, painstaking work reclaiming this field. The late spring and summers of two years had been spent clearing the skeletons of the forest from this land. Now it was cleared and blossoming into a respectable hayfield, and he wasn’t here to reap the rewards of his toil. My heart screamed out with the sharp pain of this injustice.

Larry had always been adamant about treating me as his equal in every aspect of our life together. Fetching coffee or sandwiches was not beneath him; doing maintenance on the equipment was not too challenging for me. But we had shared so much more than an equal partnership. Our relationship had been much more symbiotic than that. I was the exhale to his inhale, and he was the blood to my cut. With the precision of a masterful surgical team, he would reach for a tool and I would place it promptly into his hand. I might not have known the mechanics of the job, but I always instinctively knew exactly when and which tool or part he was going to need. We’d talk while we worked, and more often than not he would respond to my thoughts while my brain was still trying to form the question.

If I had had any tears left to cry, they would have trickled down my face as my Technicolor memories replayed the scenes so dear to my heart. I listened to the echoes of the rhythmic chugging of his precious Ford tractor. How he loved bouncing along on his blue metal steed, his brow sun-baked and sweating. The thunderous drone of the engine was dotted only with the staccato clanging of the rusty old disk harrow that bounced uncooperatively over the rocks and roots littering the newly recovered field. He was perpetually smiling as his hazel eyes flitted constantly forward and back, confirming his course and assuring himself that the harrow followed obediently behind. Hour after hour, day after day, we had rehearsed the choreography of this song of the fields. I never could decide whose joy was greater. He was ecstatic in his role as cultivator of the earth, and watching his happiness made our labors all the sweeter.

In my mind I could hear the reverberating rumble of the International tractor as I pulled up into the field, carefully hauling the homemade trailer behind me. Now we began the backbreaking task of collecting all the debris that had been turned up in the last round of harrowing. I shifted my tractor into its lowest gear, and quickly slipped out of its torn vinyl seat and jumped on to the ground as the tractor crept slowly and faithfully along toward the far end of the field. Larry and I trotted alongside the pilotless machine, picking up roots and dislodged rocks and tossing them into the trailer. Once in a great while I’d have to scurry up to the front and jump onto the tractor to set the brakes so we could wrangle a particularly large or stubborn root from the earth, but mostly we just let the tractor idle along under its own steam. As the tractor approached the end of the field, I would scramble quickly up to the front of the convoy, stretch my short little legs up onto the running board, and hoist myself into the driver’s seat. The International didn’t have power steering, so I had to manhandle the huge blackened steering wheel into a turn that would start us onto another leg of our root-removal rumba. Larry would laugh and make fun of me each time I’d dash to the controls, but his face would beam with pride and delight all the while.

It was hot, hard, sweaty, gritty, backbreaking work, but we spent the hours talking and laughing and planning our future as we clumped our Neanderthal trek up one side of the field and down the other. When the trailer was full—finally—we’d take turns driving the cargo to the adjoining field where we’d empty the contents into a low swampy area of the woods that bordered that field. While one of us emptied the contents of the trailer into the wet hole, the other would whisk up the insulated cups and walk back to the house to replenish them with fresh coffee or perhaps the occasional glass of iced tea.

I stood there, lost in wistful reverie, with my tear-burned eyes pressed tightly shut against the emptiness. The silence was deafening. Even the rays from the midday sun that now scorched my arms and face felt cold and icy, echoing a desolate emptiness inside me. How irrational that standing in the center of a wide-open six-acre field could strangle me with such claustrophobic terror. I had wandered outside into this field desperately seeking some connection to a world now lost. My soul cried out to at least touch a wispy ghost of the memories that we had so lovingly cultivated in our beloved ground during the past few years. But now, standing here amid the clovers and ryegrass, bees humming softly around my feet and shoulders, gentle breezes wafting fragrances of earth and wildflowers around my head, I felt isolated and alone in the vast expanse of my tiny shattered world. In my search for solace, I found only sharper pain. Instead of comfort and connection, I was filled with this haunting vacuum of cherished sights, sounds and smells…memories that, if palpable…would have at least sparked an ember of warmth inside the cold hollow shell I had become.

I hated this place now, with its empty promise and withered dreams. My only thought was to sell the property and distance myself from the torturous memories that haunted every blade of grass and every breath of air. But what mode of travel exists that can outdistance the memories of your heart? No matter where I could go, I could never escape the emptiness within me. My life companion, my best friend, my soul mate had died, and I was left only with this terrible void and these material tracks to console me.

I opened my eyes, stared blankly across the field and into the woods beyond for a few more minutes, released a defeated sigh, and turned to walk slowly back toward the house. As painful as it was to look out over these fields and not see that great gangly figure with his toothy grin bouncing up and down on his big blue tractor, I knew with all certainty that I’d never part with our home. We had poured too much of ourselves into this place, and every branch, every blade of grass, every flaking clapboard was part and parcel of what we’d been. It hurt far too much right now to step outside and face these painful memories, but I knew with time these tracks of our life would bring warmth and comfort once again.