Lord, what he wouldn’t give for a new pad of real art paper and a set of those marking pens—
color pouring out onto the page as fast as you could think it.
Not like stubby school crayons you had to press down on till somebody bitched about your breaking them.
A car was turning in. It was the Timmonses’. The girls had beat Dad home.
Jess could hear their happy calls as the car doors slammed.
Momma would fix them supper, and when he went in with the milk, he’d find them all laughing and chattering.
Momma’d even forget she was tired and mad. He was the only one who had to take that stuff.
Sometimes he felt so lonely among all these females—even the one rooster had died, and they hadn’t yet gotten another.
With his father gone from sunup until well past dark, who was there to know how he felt?
Weekends weren’t any better. His dad was so tired from the wear and tear of the week
and trying to catch up around the place that when he wasn’t actually working, he was sleeping in front of the TV.
“Hey, Jesse.” May Belle. The dumb kid wouldn’t even let you think privately.
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