Fields of sunburnt barley and a sky the colour of blueberries. That’s all I remember from my childhood.
I remember being older, thirteen and upwards, but before then there was just one image: me, and that field.
I miss the country. I have since the day Grandpa abruptly moved us away. Our farm was perfect. Idyllic.
At least, that’s the way I remember it.
Others tell strange tales. Tales of scarecrows that call for children in the night. Of twiglike fingers reaching for them, trapping them in bodies of straw and taking their places in the human world.
I don’t remember those rumours. Then again, I barely remember being a child at all.
I still long for the field. I long to be back in that one memory where everything felt just right. I feel like there’s something not right with the way I’m living. It sounds strange, but I feel like I move too much.
I long to be back where I belong, under that blueberry sky. To just stand in the barley field with my arms stretched out to the side, drinking in the summer air…and to finally, once again, be still.