Memories of a Farmer

[Someone]

The sun beats down on all beneath it, hot and unending. Birds, insects, and other wildlife chirp and call, and the wind gently blows through trees and grass alike. A young, dark-haired man works and toils in a cornfield, and soon enough strikes his shovel into the earth, which latches on to keep it upright in his place. Raising the back of his hand to wipe his sheened brow, he breathes in and releases, looking up to the sky as cottonlike clouds slowly drifted through that vast, blue expanse. They were pretty, and pure; he would reach out and touch them if he could, and yet--

"..-ah!"

The man blinks and turns his focus to the far-off noise. There along the edge of his home awaited a woman younger than he, and of his spitting image besides. She called out to him wordlessly, smiling and waving for his attention. Attention she was quick to earn, as usual.

He couldn't help but notice how pale she was against the darker and more natural tones of the world. A person dainty and precious both. A downward glance prompts self-assessment and comparison. His shirtless form was indeed darker, tanner than hers; and it had been long since last he burned beneath the sun. But her errands were inside, and his lay without. He would have it no other way.

He wrestles his shovel from the earth and laid it over-shoulder as he returned home.

 

[Someone]

The inside of the home was as welcoming as always. The man had seen the other villagers' dwellings inside and out; his own fell somewhere along the average in quality and age. They may not have had excess, but what they did have, they took care of, and it showed. His focus is directed to the younger woman, who sat a tall cup of water on the nearby table for the man. Her hands then quickened to a flurry of gestures- a rapidity reserved for the two of them. (Didn't work too hard, did you?)

The man shook his head and gestured back to explain in added detail, however meager, his pace slightly slower than the woman's own. (No. Thank you.)

He then takes the cup and drinks, and it doesn't leave his lips until emptied. The coolness and purity of the water ran through him, pacifying heat and setting body and soul at ease.

The young woman stared at him wistfully, but nods and forces a meager smile before prepping the table for dinner. In the meantime, he would depart for a bath and a change of clothes.

Once tidied, he fell onto his bed with an exhale. The small, packed room was split by an imaginary line; on one half was his bed, a small end table, and a shelf overfilled with books that had been read and re-read time and time again. On the other half was another bed, a trunk, and another small end table with a handful of books stacked upon it, borrowed from his own collection. A wardrobe and laundry basket were the only things shared between the halves. Quaint as it may have been, anxiety and longing still set in. But before it could sink into him too heavily, there was a voice from below, deeper than his own.

"Oi! You dozin' off up there!?"

He stares at the ceiling a little longer before willing his body to motion, grabbing his pack from the wardrobe on the way down.

 

[Someone]

The wonderful scents of various foodstuffs and spices fill the air with a mouth-watering haze. Nearing the source brought the clinking of dishes into focus, and rounding the corner provided three familiar faces crowded around a modest table that had a miniature feast set atop it; nothing of terribly high quality, but variety was pricy in itself.

The oldest face, wrinkling and rugged, with greying black hair, a half-kept beard, and fiery green eyes, guffaws at the young man's entry as his hands begin in clumsy manner. (You get lost on the way down?)

The young man rolls his eyes with a light smirk, which sets his attention to the other older, more feminine face; less wrinkled, dark hair, and kind blue eyes. Her hand motions come with measured grace. (Hello, dear. Please, have a seat.)

The young woman was present as well, making some final, tactical sprinkles of salt before nodding to herself in satisfaction. Her hands sign effortlessly, serving as invitation for the others to partake of the food; and thus they do. They 'chatter', laugh, and reminisce for hours. And as the feasting finished and the cutlery was collected, a solemn air came over the lot of them, and nobody had much to say anymore.

All eyes were on the young man. He briefly met each gaze before his own lowered to the ground, anxiety rearing its ugly head as his heart pounded on. He swallows, and begins a new, uncertain set of hand motions. The silence to follow would be all-encompassing. The seconds drew uncomfortably long, and the expressions worn were no happier than prior. Eventually, the young woman stepped forward to wrap him into embrace. And the others followed suit.

Wiping tears and stifling sobs, they clung to one another for as long as was needed. The young woman was the first to break off, affording the young man a glassy-eyed smile, and the usual effortlessness of her hand motions. The rest all break apart thereafter, gesturing in their own ways for one final time.

The young man studies each of them, gives a nod, and grabs his pack as he turns for the door. Not a sound was uttered as the others watched him enter into the moonlight.

And thus, the life of a farmer had ended.