Jeremiah Weeping

Jeremiah rolled cigarettes with pages from the Bible the way he’d seen his granddaddy do on the front porch every Saturday as they watched fireflies wink and glow in the distant clover fields while day fled. As a young boy, he’d sit cross-legged, his dirty feet wedged under his lean thighs, and count the bobbing golden dots before returning his gaze to the old man’s dusty overalls, paring knife, maimed Book, and smoke of choice. As a man of twenty-eight, he now assumed his place in the weathered rocking chair by birthright.

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities. All is vanity. Today’s 3x1.5-inch rectangle of black words, no red, framed by white margins called to him from Ecclesiastes. He worked his way through the Book, Old Testament in the morning, New Testament at night, the way it was meant to be read. Jeremiah absently rolled the paper-shrouded leaves between his calluses as he stared through the confines of the wooden porch with its cracked and peeling banisters wrought from decades in the burning sun.

Rolling tobacco by hand was an art, his granddaddy often said as he lined the leaves, coaxed the proper shape into the King James paper with thumb and finger, licked it close with foul breath, and inserted the filter, removing the excess. The crushed plant gave up the Ghost in aromas of oak, hay, or stubble. Jeremiah didn’t even like to smoke but did it anyway to keep the fading memories alive.

Before him the earth shimmered with unbearable heat. The old man had left him with more than he and his older sister Naomi could handle on the farm—emaciated livestock, withering grains, and a broken-down house he didn’t want and couldn’t afford. He knew nothing in life besides working the land, Cain-like, or tending the animals after famous kings of old; she, the butchering of chickens, tilling of the garden, and keeping food on the table.

He deeply regretted his choice to put it up for sale without telling her.

One generation passes away, and another generation comes: but the earth abides forever.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice behind him said. His fingers stopped their cylindrical movement as if burned by her ice. He felt his face flush and envisioned the look of righteous indignation on Naomi’s face, her brown eyes sparking like the burning bush in the sand, her cracked elbows pointing away from her thin hips.

“Don’t a working man deserve a little rest?” he said, trying to shake the panic in his voice. He didn’t dare turn around, gambling instead with the consequences of not bodily acknowledging her. He squinted at the week-old grime on his faded overalls, studied yesterday’s black dirt under his chipped fingernails, and tensed his shoulders in anticipation for a blow on his tangled curls.

“Aw, hush. You know I’m not talking about that.” The cool breeze of her apron rustled past his ear. A slender arm snatched the mangled Book from the table next to him as waist-long wavy hair draped the space between them. Resisting her chastisement might buy him more time to explain his grief, to lay out his reasons like fleece.

“We agreed to disagree,” he said. He folded his sweaty hands, hiding the scroll of evidence.

“That’s a lie and you know it, Jeremiah. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” The anger in her voice crested, a rising sun, and splintered porch planks creaked with her pacing. Jeremiah tilted his head to the right, enough to acknowledge her sideways out of focus.

“You’re not Mother, Naomi,” he said. He rubbed the sweat into his forehead with slow circles. “You’ve got to stop talking to me like that.”

“And you’re not Granddaddy.” She brandished the Book in his direction with an exasperated shrug. “I’ll talk to you however I please as long as you keep ripping up his Bible, and tracking dust everywhere, and sleeping in too late to milk the cows.” She circled to the front of his vision, the look in her eyes giving off flames of fire in a fulfilling prophecy.

“You’re acting like him before he died.” She raised her eyebrows and slowly bent a pointer finger back to her palm before dropping it to her side.

“They’re both dead.” He coughed and rolled the paper over his knuckles.

There’s nothing new under the sun.

Jeremiah sat speechless for a minute, feeling the sting of her words in the stifling heat, and lit the holy smoke with trembling hands before he could stop himself. His breathing deepened as the inked words filled his lungs, became part of him, radiating calm through the capillaries of his limbs. He carefully chose his response and knew what he needed to say for them to move on.

“Sorry I forgot about the cows,” he said quietly. Too exhausted to move at the rooster’s futile cry most mornings, he neglected that duty often. His granddaddy called failures like that consistency. Jeremiah called it good at disappointing the people he loved.

“It’s fine,” she muttered. “I know you’re trying. This is the last good thing we have of his.” She leaned against the peeling rail with her arms crossed over her chest, securing the Bible, wiggling her toes. She smoothed the tattered Book that held their heritage, family tree, birth and death and marriage dates in yellowing pages snuggled against the cracked leather of the back cover.

Jeremiah never touched those pages with his knife.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said, “cooking and cleaning and picking up my slack.” He shifted in his rocker and gripped the smoldering cigarette tighter, suddenly feeling sick.

Knowledge increases sorrow.

“We’ve been through a lot. Give us some grace.” She flipped through the patchy pages, some so loose they almost slipped away.

“Grace doesn’t pay the bills, Naomi.” Bitter bile washed up his throat, threatening to stifle his voice. He took a deep breath from the cigarette and forced out black words.

“Someone’s coming to look at the farm tomorrow,” he said. “We need to sell it.” The heat seeped into his bones, aging him, as he watched his sister’s shoulders rise and fall against her hair. He slipped off the rocking chair and wiped at his weathered face.

The porch groaned as Naomi walked behind him and lowered herself into the rocker. Her hand felt warm on his shoulder, and she squeezed it once.

“He’d be proud, you know,” she said after a silence. They sat still while Jeremiah drew heavy drags from the small scroll, sending his smoke signal apology floating to the clouds. Day passed before them as they talked, made plans, remembered the past with low laughs and bright tears. And before long, a host of fireflies welcomed a star-filled night over the dry clover fields.

Dust returns to earth as it was: and the spirit shall return to God.