Connie
There’s not much distance between the church and the farm. Just follow winding Kregar Road past some houses and garbage bags dropped, here and there, by strangers. Reminders of the outside world leading the way home from worship. Her mother left for a time when she was young, but didn’t come back full. Half the family has a habit of straying, the other half remains near the metal semisphere of the silo, emptied of its forage—satellites hugging some force of gravity. She stayed before anyone else could leave. Raised three brothers and two sisters among the stench from the slaughterhouse. Never let anyone forget the Lord because sacrifice is relative. Half the family is bright, half the family possesses a peculiar twitch and the inability to look straight ahead. She inherited a little of both. Traveled alone only as far as farms in neighboring counties to calculate their taxes. Married and bought a house along the highway. Raised her niece after a sister left with a man for Texas and returned with a heroine stutter. The niece herself left on her own for Texas years later. She would call the niece each day but never heard her voice. She didn’t forget about the Lord because suffering is relative and then got fat like her mother. Her husband died and she remarried, living in the same house along the highway. Rewards come in different shapes. Both joy and loss wrapped in the silence of her morning coffee. Making the drive on the turnpike when she must. Singing to the gospel stations and counting the tops of silos along the way like far-flung suns. She gets the feeling that, no matter the distance, it is all the same.