Week 15: The Boy -- Provost

Chore time
By Kaiya Provost
Colchester High School, Grade 9

Ten years old and just waking up, he lives in a farm and prefers not to speak. He does not look at anyone in the wrong way, nor does he make himself known to others. He is but a child, and children are to be seen and not heard.

He has dark hair and his eyes are almost the shade of a sapphire, hidden under furrowed brow and tousled hair. He brushes that hair back, out of his eyes. It sticks up. He can see it, though he has only seen a rippling reflection in a pond before. In his mind’s eye it is pointed high to the sky as if drawn to it.

He wears suspenders over a torn brown shirt. They are tight, and he is proud because they belong to his older brother. His boots crunch on the dry grass as he heads out to the corn field. He is to help his father pick the corn and get it into rough bags. His brother will be there. His younger sister and mother will be inside, cooking and mending ripped pants and socks.

He has only been up for a fleeting 15 minutes, but the boy is happy to watch the sun come over the plains in a brilliant spectacle of red and gold. He is proud that he rises before the sun, and works a tiring day out in the brush. He is happy. This farm is his life. It always has been.

His father is standing there, in the field. He is tall and stands out like a scarecrow, just as gangly and wearing similar clothes. A straw hat, torn sleeves, pants covered in dirt and crusted with other filth. The boy can spot him from anywhere. His feet pound on the ground as the figure grows closer and closer.

The man smiles and hands him a rough bag. The boy knows what he has to do. He turns to the wave of stalks in the distance and races for them. Another day is here.