By: Laura Lee Cochran 2022
The wind blows through my brown hair as I hear my mother call me from the house. As far as I am from her, her voice still echoes in my ears. I draw up my pail from the well and make my way through the field painted softly with yellow flowers. The end of my dress lightly brushes the flower petals I pass, making a path behind me. Edging closer to the house, I turn to see my brother picking weeds in the garden. He’s a short boy of four years old, wearing oversized overalls and a straw hat. Freckles flow over his cheeks with a red undertone of youthful bliss. He stands there, crouched, with a basket between his legs and the stack of weeds he has pulled out of the soil. Though, no matter how professional a weed puller he looks, I see his tiny hand reach for a red rose.
In a moment, I realize what is to happen. I drop my pail, causing water to flood the ground around me and soak my stockings, inching the dampness all the way up to my prepubescent knees. I run to him, hoping to catch him in time, but knowing what is to happen is already in motion. A thorn has pricked his finger, allowing a droplet of blood to roll down his finger as red as the rose he holds. In a moment, tears flood his eyes, and soon a large cry erupts from within him. I come to his side, carefully taking the rose from his hand as he whines at the pure betrayal of such a beautiful flower. I take him in my arms, holding him tightly to my chest, and move my hand up and down his back to console him.
My poor brother shouldn't be out picking weeds by himself at such a young age .I shouldn’t be made to be getting a pail of water either. Though, I look down at him, slowly calming down and I am reminded of my father. Sick, he is. Always has been, leaving the duties of the house to fall upon my mother and her children. My uncle has taken it upon himself to be our source of income on behalf of our father, and my mother is very grateful. Though because of this, he makes himself the man of the household, when father should be. My uncle's rules are set, and my mother complies out of desperation of keeping our family afloat.
I pet my brother's brown hair, his cry has now turned into sweet sniffles. My four year old brother looks up to me, a mere teenager as if I have all the answers. His eyes are wide with colors of a forest, yet have a hit of red from his recent cry. His tiny hand lifts to my cheek in order to show me his wounded finger. I take his hand, and kiss his finger, and a smile forms on his face. I take the end of my drenched dress and wipe the blood off his finger. He stands and puts his hat back on in determination, grabs his basket and walks away from the roses and to the lilies. He finds comfort in taking weeds from the lilies.
A sad smile creeps on my face. If only we had time to be children. If only we could play in this field of flowers instead of take care of it. I stand, realizing I now have to go back to the well and grab another pail of water. My mother shouts for me again. If, for just a moment, I could just be. Though, the life I live demands more. I pat my brother on top of his straw hat and make my way back to my pail, knowing there is no end in sight for the freedom of simply being a child.