Early in The Mornin' //Opal
Sept 25, 2013 7:22:52 GMT -5
Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Sept 25, 2013 7:22:52 GMT -5
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When I awake in the morning it's to the songs of the birds restin' just outside my window. My toes feel all wiggly and my stomachs all flutters as I wait 'till I'm allowed to move about. Mama says that I have to wait 'till at least six 'cause then that's fair for my sister who likes to sleep later. She sleeps later 'cause she's gotta do her studyin. She's real smart, my sister. So I don't mind the light that fills the room till late, it's comfortin, really. The yellow glow reminds a humble boy like me of the sun, I can see it 'ahind my lids when I shut 'em. Sometimes, iffin she feels up to it, she'll read to me. Sometimes she reads scientifics to me, but I never understand unless it's about plants, and we both just get all flustered. I like it best when she reads me stories, things I can relate to. I like the one about Jack best, imagining his beanstalk somehow makes the night warmer.
I can hear her soft snores, even though her head is underneath the blankets, all that's there are the dark strands of her hair fannin' the pillow. Some might be thinkin' that it's weird that we share a bed. We been sharin' since I was born, so to us it's a regular thing. Real careful, I roll off the bed and pull my overalls on. I roll the bottoms up, because then no one will be noticin' how they don't reach my ankles anymore. I'm thinkin' that they shrunk a bit in my mama's washin', but my daddy says it's cause I'm getting too tall. It's a truth that I gotta duck now when I head out the door, but I haven't really noticed it myself. I don't go to school, so's I never have anyone but my sister to measure against and I've always been taller than her anyway. My feet are already dirty 'afores I even step out the door. It's probably got somethin' to do with my general dirtiness anyway. My hand wraps around an apple, and my tips almost touch each other.
I move with a swagger that I didn't even know I had, maybe it's the confidence I carry. The sun is up and smilin' down at me already, and it's only five minutes past six, I reckon. Yet it's gonna be a hot one. I fill my mornings with my usual things, even though summer is endin' swift. It's still hot as baking rocks, especially here in eleven. My sister explained to me that because we're plains, we've got no mountains to shade us. I raise one long hand, shading my eyes to look across the fields, and I can't see much of anythin'. They have been settin' up all week though, for some sort of festival I think. I saw 'em in the square, puttin' the stage up again, gettin' ready for a speaker. They come once a year, usually wearin' something real nice. I reckon they must come from the capitol, in all that finery. Once I was daydreamin' what it would be like to live there. They must have endless fields of flowers and vegetables, I reckon.
The imagination gives my mornin' such a blissful feel that it passes fast. 'Afores I even know it, I'm half through my waterin'. My sister tried to make me a waterin' contraption that would do the whole field at once, but I like to carry my can around, to give my plants life. It gives me that yellow happiness in the bottom of your stomach. My mama calls it satisfaction, and I agree. I feel satisfied just sayin' it. All around me, root vegetables sleep in their beds, waitin' to come up and say hello. They're just about ready to harvest, and then I will work the soil, and make sure it's lovely and good for next year's crop. Right now, I walk among the rows, waterin' with my can here and there, pulling flower heads off here an' there. If you leave the flowers on, it'll mess with your field for next year, you really gotta be careful.
When I glance up from my work, sweat is running down my face and a crowd has grown like weeds in the distance. It's gotta be somethin' to do with that stage that they were settin' up. I might go lookin' later, just to catch the finery on the this year's speaker. After only seein' overalls for a whole year, lovely stitchin' and lace is a real nice sight. It's the only reason I still go to church, I reckon, to see all that Sunday best. Otherwise it's all just a bother, imagine 'em, tellin' me that I ain't allowed to work on Sundays. It's funny as heck when they tell me of for it. This ain't even work for me. I start at a hum, warmin' up my vocal chords before I sing my vegetables outta the ground. My sister says that it's nonsense, the flowers ain't respondin; to my voice. It doesn't matter to me about what her logic and science says, cause I can hear them listenin' and they like it.
I start with a hymn we did in church this week. I couldn't read the words in the book, but it's alright, there are a lot like me who ain't readers neither. They teach us by mouth, and we repeat back until we know it. "Amazing Grace/how sweet the sound/that saved a wretch like me," I sing. I love the way it feels to sing, almost as much as I like digging in the dirt. It feels like my chest is a bird, an' I can fly. I sit down in the dirt, disregardin' entirely the fact that I will be covered in it. I reckon I'm always covered in it anyhow. My fingers dig into the dirt, and I reach down to feel for my tater tubers, wondering when they will be ready. I need to see em, so carefully, I coax some out of the ground to have myself a look. "I once was lost/but now am found," I croon, finger hookin' around a tube, "Was blind, but now I see."
Triumphantly, I pull a plant from the ground and feel an instant sorrow. It wasn't ready. It's still small, green an' I bet it's real frightened now. It's been taken too early, shaken out of it's sleep in the middle of the night. Showin' a real tenderness, I carefully place it back into the ground, continuin' with the hymn. I've gone a soft sort of frantic, and my voice gets louder 'n louder, cuttin' across the fields to fill the mornin' air. Softly, I bury it again, hopin' that it won't be too hurt by me. I feel real silly, of course it ain't ready yet, I'm just hyped from all the excitement off down the dirt road. Still, I sing, tryin' to soothe my plants, sittin' cross-legged in the middle of my fields.
[/blockquote][/justify][/size][/td][/tr][/table][/center]I can hear her soft snores, even though her head is underneath the blankets, all that's there are the dark strands of her hair fannin' the pillow. Some might be thinkin' that it's weird that we share a bed. We been sharin' since I was born, so to us it's a regular thing. Real careful, I roll off the bed and pull my overalls on. I roll the bottoms up, because then no one will be noticin' how they don't reach my ankles anymore. I'm thinkin' that they shrunk a bit in my mama's washin', but my daddy says it's cause I'm getting too tall. It's a truth that I gotta duck now when I head out the door, but I haven't really noticed it myself. I don't go to school, so's I never have anyone but my sister to measure against and I've always been taller than her anyway. My feet are already dirty 'afores I even step out the door. It's probably got somethin' to do with my general dirtiness anyway. My hand wraps around an apple, and my tips almost touch each other.
I move with a swagger that I didn't even know I had, maybe it's the confidence I carry. The sun is up and smilin' down at me already, and it's only five minutes past six, I reckon. Yet it's gonna be a hot one. I fill my mornings with my usual things, even though summer is endin' swift. It's still hot as baking rocks, especially here in eleven. My sister explained to me that because we're plains, we've got no mountains to shade us. I raise one long hand, shading my eyes to look across the fields, and I can't see much of anythin'. They have been settin' up all week though, for some sort of festival I think. I saw 'em in the square, puttin' the stage up again, gettin' ready for a speaker. They come once a year, usually wearin' something real nice. I reckon they must come from the capitol, in all that finery. Once I was daydreamin' what it would be like to live there. They must have endless fields of flowers and vegetables, I reckon.
The imagination gives my mornin' such a blissful feel that it passes fast. 'Afores I even know it, I'm half through my waterin'. My sister tried to make me a waterin' contraption that would do the whole field at once, but I like to carry my can around, to give my plants life. It gives me that yellow happiness in the bottom of your stomach. My mama calls it satisfaction, and I agree. I feel satisfied just sayin' it. All around me, root vegetables sleep in their beds, waitin' to come up and say hello. They're just about ready to harvest, and then I will work the soil, and make sure it's lovely and good for next year's crop. Right now, I walk among the rows, waterin' with my can here and there, pulling flower heads off here an' there. If you leave the flowers on, it'll mess with your field for next year, you really gotta be careful.
When I glance up from my work, sweat is running down my face and a crowd has grown like weeds in the distance. It's gotta be somethin' to do with that stage that they were settin' up. I might go lookin' later, just to catch the finery on the this year's speaker. After only seein' overalls for a whole year, lovely stitchin' and lace is a real nice sight. It's the only reason I still go to church, I reckon, to see all that Sunday best. Otherwise it's all just a bother, imagine 'em, tellin' me that I ain't allowed to work on Sundays. It's funny as heck when they tell me of for it. This ain't even work for me. I start at a hum, warmin' up my vocal chords before I sing my vegetables outta the ground. My sister says that it's nonsense, the flowers ain't respondin; to my voice. It doesn't matter to me about what her logic and science says, cause I can hear them listenin' and they like it.
I start with a hymn we did in church this week. I couldn't read the words in the book, but it's alright, there are a lot like me who ain't readers neither. They teach us by mouth, and we repeat back until we know it. "Amazing Grace/how sweet the sound/that saved a wretch like me," I sing. I love the way it feels to sing, almost as much as I like digging in the dirt. It feels like my chest is a bird, an' I can fly. I sit down in the dirt, disregardin' entirely the fact that I will be covered in it. I reckon I'm always covered in it anyhow. My fingers dig into the dirt, and I reach down to feel for my tater tubers, wondering when they will be ready. I need to see em, so carefully, I coax some out of the ground to have myself a look. "I once was lost/but now am found," I croon, finger hookin' around a tube, "Was blind, but now I see."
Triumphantly, I pull a plant from the ground and feel an instant sorrow. It wasn't ready. It's still small, green an' I bet it's real frightened now. It's been taken too early, shaken out of it's sleep in the middle of the night. Showin' a real tenderness, I carefully place it back into the ground, continuin' with the hymn. I've gone a soft sort of frantic, and my voice gets louder 'n louder, cuttin' across the fields to fill the mornin' air. Softly, I bury it again, hopin' that it won't be too hurt by me. I feel real silly, of course it ain't ready yet, I'm just hyped from all the excitement off down the dirt road. Still, I sing, tryin' to soothe my plants, sittin' cross-legged in the middle of my fields.
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