into the sunrise I’m sure all my problems would be solved.
I thought about this while I watched the sun peek above the row of blue mountains in the distance. The sun was the color of egg yolks, the pinks and oranges around it like cotton candy and squished oranges.
Part of me knows that I am losing my mind, but I am proud in a weird sort of way that I can lose it while still appreciating nature’s beauty.
I pushed my hand over my hat, squishing it down on my curls. It was the crack of dawn, and I was feeding Aunt Lydia’s chickens. I hadn’t showered yet, and I was positive I stunk like chicken shit. I also had wet mud sliming down my legs and hay all over my plaid shirt, which hung almost to my knees, because I slipped when I was petting the piglets. They’d all gathered around at once, and I’d lost my balance.
Although I slept well the night of Breast Power Psychic Night, I did not sleep the next two nights for more than a few hours, and when I did, I dreamed of Robert chasing me with a pickax.
A pickax is an unusual object. It looks mean and nasty. But there it was. I was not surprised in my dream to see Robert holding that pickax. Nor did it particularly frighten me. What frightened me was that Robert was smiling. A smile that was so gentle, so endearing, it made me feel sick with high-octane panic.
In my dream I started running. You know how in your dreams when you run, you just can’t move, and the person who is chasing you catches up with lightning speed, and the reason you can’t run is because your legs are all tangled up in your sheet, and you’re sweating, a river of water gushing down your face?
It was not like that at all. In these pickax dreams, I ran. So fast, so hard, so long. I hid around buildings and waited. Robert would appear, pickax above his head, and grinning. I would turn at the last minute before my imminent death, run again, this time hiding behind a bridge, and there he would come again. Smiling. So gentle. So endearing. And he’d swing. He’d miss me by inches, and I would sprint at high speed to the country, and there, behind a tractor, he’d find me, and he’d still be smiling.
This went on until he finally got me. I saw my mother laughing in the distance, her dyed blond hair flying behind her. My father was on his motorcycle. He sped away.
I woke up cold—freezing, in fact—my whole body shaking so hard I grabbed the pink comforter on the bed and wrapped myself up like a caterpillar. A very scared caterpillar.
After ascertaining he was not near, that this was not another hiding place, I willed myself to breathe again, in and out. Then, when that didn’t work, I gave up. I picked up a book on tending roses next to my bed and read. I read every single word. Forcing myself to concentrate. I learned about fertilizers, traditional versus organic, and all kinds of rose bugs, and different types of soil, and how to water your roses.
At some point I fell asleep, and in my next dream Robert was chasing me through a rose garden with that same pickax in his hand. In his other hand he carried a book on roses. I woke up with the rose book on my chest, the sunrise peeking through the wooden slats of my bedroom window.
Deciding I had had enough nightmares, I got up, dressed in a couple of old shirts Aunt Lydia kept in the white wicker furniture chests in the room, and headed out to the barns.
I knew Aunt Lydia was there already. She needed only a few hours of sleep a night, said sleeping was boring and she could get absolutely nothing done in bed. “After I’m dead I’ll have plenty of time to sleep. Right now I’m alive, and I’ve got things to do.”
Plus, 370 hungry chickens.
Aunt Lydia sold the eggs to the local store in town and to two stores in neighboring towns. People often called her “The Egg Lady.” She loved it. Every day, for hours and hours, she would work with her chickens. Picking up their eggs, cleaning out the barns, making sure “the ladies” had
I thought about this while I watched the sun peek above the row of blue mountains in the distance. The sun was the color of egg yolks, the pinks and oranges around it like cotton candy and squished oranges.
Part of me knows that I am losing my mind, but I am proud in a weird sort of way that I can lose it while still appreciating nature’s beauty.
I pushed my hand over my hat, squishing it down on my curls. It was the crack of dawn, and I was feeding Aunt Lydia’s chickens. I hadn’t showered yet, and I was positive I stunk like chicken shit. I also had wet mud sliming down my legs and hay all over my plaid shirt, which hung almost to my knees, because I slipped when I was petting the piglets. They’d all gathered around at once, and I’d lost my balance.
Although I slept well the night of Breast Power Psychic Night, I did not sleep the next two nights for more than a few hours, and when I did, I dreamed of Robert chasing me with a pickax.
A pickax is an unusual object. It looks mean and nasty. But there it was. I was not surprised in my dream to see Robert holding that pickax. Nor did it particularly frighten me. What frightened me was that Robert was smiling. A smile that was so gentle, so endearing, it made me feel sick with high-octane panic.
In my dream I started running. You know how in your dreams when you run, you just can’t move, and the person who is chasing you catches up with lightning speed, and the reason you can’t run is because your legs are all tangled up in your sheet, and you’re sweating, a river of water gushing down your face?
It was not like that at all. In these pickax dreams, I ran. So fast, so hard, so long. I hid around buildings and waited. Robert would appear, pickax above his head, and grinning. I would turn at the last minute before my imminent death, run again, this time hiding behind a bridge, and there he would come again. Smiling. So gentle. So endearing. And he’d swing. He’d miss me by inches, and I would sprint at high speed to the country, and there, behind a tractor, he’d find me, and he’d still be smiling.
This went on until he finally got me. I saw my mother laughing in the distance, her dyed blond hair flying behind her. My father was on his motorcycle. He sped away.
I woke up cold—freezing, in fact—my whole body shaking so hard I grabbed the pink comforter on the bed and wrapped myself up like a caterpillar. A very scared caterpillar.
After ascertaining he was not near, that this was not another hiding place, I willed myself to breathe again, in and out. Then, when that didn’t work, I gave up. I picked up a book on tending roses next to my bed and read. I read every single word. Forcing myself to concentrate. I learned about fertilizers, traditional versus organic, and all kinds of rose bugs, and different types of soil, and how to water your roses.
At some point I fell asleep, and in my next dream Robert was chasing me through a rose garden with that same pickax in his hand. In his other hand he carried a book on roses. I woke up with the rose book on my chest, the sunrise peeking through the wooden slats of my bedroom window.
Deciding I had had enough nightmares, I got up, dressed in a couple of old shirts Aunt Lydia kept in the white wicker furniture chests in the room, and headed out to the barns.
I knew Aunt Lydia was there already. She needed only a few hours of sleep a night, said sleeping was boring and she could get absolutely nothing done in bed. “After I’m dead I’ll have plenty of time to sleep. Right now I’m alive, and I’ve got things to do.”
Plus, 370 hungry chickens.
Aunt Lydia sold the eggs to the local store in town and to two stores in neighboring towns. People often called her “The Egg Lady.” She loved it. Every day, for hours and hours, she would work with her chickens. Picking up their eggs, cleaning out the barns, making sure “the ladies” had
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