By Ammon Gillins
Rays of sun touch the pasture, caressing it. Oranges and yellows patter up and around the house, searching for shadows of night to cheer. They find the sleeping baby and fix him with a smile. They glint across the mirror, towards the woman. They creep up the floor, the pillow, catching her face. Eyelids open, blinking, closing. Open. She smiles as dreams fade. By the bedroom door her husband’s slippers, where she’ll trip over them.
Above the headboard hangs a photo not six months old. Pastel outfits, her pink dress, his blue tie, the baby in khaki overalls. Next to it another photo, larger. Her husband with his favorite cow. They named the baby after that cow. There are some paintings of goats. Ugly, all of them.
Eyes close.
The animals outside. A peaceful lowing as they search for food. Chatter as the farmhands set to their work.
Inside, her sobs. The baby wakes. Outside, the cows and their impatient bellows. The shotgun askew in the corner. Six times she’d picked it up. Her finger danced along the trigger like how she uses her fiddle. Today it would stay in the corner, not forgotten, just waiting. She knows she cannot.
Through the window the cow. Docile eyes, jaw hammering with mulch, staring into the dirt. She turns away with another round of wails. Another glance to the gun. The cluck of the hens that coaxes her to coddle the baby. She wonders again what a cow feels. Guilt? Passivity. Outside, the cow’s hoof chips the gravestone, petals from yesterday’s flowers caught in its mouth.
