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Shepherd's Field Shepherd's Field
by Abigail George
2019-06-27 10:38:52
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Shepherd’s Field
(for Ambronese)

    Our expectations were obsessive that
    Mother’s face wore a defeated expression.
    Her vanity retreated for now. I sit there as
    around me families ‘barbecue’ (a word as
geabi01_400foreign to me as my sister’s Prague) at Shepherd’s Field.
    I think of the rough and tumble of Jean Rhys’
    Dominican sea. I think of God, the super-natural
    wonder of my brother, the holy. The dark.
    The farm (Shepherd’s Field) had goats, ducks,
    geese, pigs, dogs. 3 greenhouses (one filled
    with carrots and basil, my brother showed us).
    The others filled with flowers. He didn’t
    show us the other two. Thought perhaps that we’d lose interest.
We took a long walk. Everything was green like my brother’s fingers. We
    ate sticky ribs and chicken wings. Potato salad.
    Munched on cucumber slices. Didn’t talk about our flaws. This made my
    brother angry. I could see it in the tension written
    on his face. (The farm was called Shepherd’s
    Field. Oh, I guess I said that already). It’s
    summer but inside all of us it’s raining a
    frozen sea. The death of us. When we come home in the late afternoon
I leave my steak roll on the plate uneaten. We
all sit in a dark house to match our mood,
    I guess. Later, we’ll warm the spaghetti through on the stove and
eat it for dinner. After the day we’ve had we’re
    all feeling sunburned and sentimental.
    Once, even my mother was complex and
    flirtatious but this makes me feel sad.
    Now I betray her by thinking that she’s
    unjust. Her sincerity towards other women,
    (older women) crowds her. Rewards her.
    I’m hateful. I’m hurtful. Wounded
    because she’s never said that she’s
    proud of me. That feeling would have come alive in me.
It’s summer but it feels like winter has descended
    upon the house. Mourning for flight. Nobody
    moves to switch on the lights. We’re
    all missing him. Missing my brother who we
left at the ‘farm’ (please see rehab centre). Our hearts are crushed by loss.
    The loss of an aunt and mother (Jean) to cancer.
    The loss of an aunt and mother (Magda) to diabetes.
    This was just another kind of loss. A different kind of loss.
I guess, we were all in mourning for our childhood as
    we ate sticky ribs and chicken wings.
    The rain in our souls that day made us forget
that this was visiting time and that in a way, soon, we would be leaving
    my younger brother behind again.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!



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