Night Riders

Distant Memories of Forgotten Hills

I was once a young girl. I think we all were, at some point or another. The sun could only ever shine, the days were only ever longer, and nights were filled with fireflies and Mama's singing.

Running through fields in my new potato sack dress that Mama cut and sewed with her own two hands, my boots getting too small for my ever growing feet, my eyes so wide as the hills rolled, horses grazed, and chickens bawked. Clover was for the bees, and the honey for Mama's pound cake drizzle that could drag Pops across the acres into her lap.

Lantern lights only faded for bedtime, and that was always quick, because Pops knew the best stories to put me to sleep.

Scuffed knees were the biggest, scariest thing, and Pops had his trusty rifle for the cyots, so nothing was getting in at night. Even my cat, Miss Daisy, was the best for cuddles, and always watched for spilt milk in the cow barn as Pops taught me to squeeze our dairy girls teats.

"Claudia!" Mama used to shout across the kitchen to where I slept in the loft when the sun was just begining to kiss the world good morning.

"Sit still!" Mama would always say as she tried to brush what messy auburn hair I had at the breakfast table while I wolfed down too many biscuits and sausages. Pops would only smile, that great smile with the twinkle in his eye.

Oh, I miss those twinkles.

But now, I'm grown. And Mama doesn't yell for me to get up in the morning, and Pops eyes don't twinkle, they just look cold and stare at me every time I track mud behind me in the house. How I wish they would look anywhere other than through me.

Mama died a couple years back. Scarlet fever. Took some of my hearing and now my eyes are a bit hazy at night, so night riding isn't great. Pops.. well.. He was never the same. He remarried, rather quickly I might add, he remarried the school teacher, Miss Hazel. She's got a round face and plenty of laughs, but not Mama's laughs.

Not Mama's calling me down for breakfast, not Mama's scolding for when I track mud in her house, not Mama's tears when I was first arrested.

And not Mama when the javel came down and pronounced me guilty for murder for a man I never met, knew, or considered in life before my verdict.

It was Pops who was there, telling me what a worthless little girl I was.

It was Pops telling me how he wish he tanned my hide more as a kid, so that way I'd have learned never to mess with guns without him around.

It was Pops who turned me in after the wanted posters went up.

It was Pops who died about a year into my sentence. And Mrs. Hazel never came to see me. After the sentencing, she forgot I existed.

Pops and Mrs. Hazel never have another child when they married. And Mama only had one healthy baby. I wish they had two, so Pops could have someone else to take care of him while I was in prison, breaking stones and learning the harmonica while fucking guards for longer outside breaks and warmer water.

I don't think Mama would have cared so much as to die of spite like Pops did. But Mama...

Mama was buried in her wedding dress, because Pops didn't think I'd marry. Especially not when your teeth are too yellow and wide apart, and your skin has some pock marks, and you whistle too loud when you want to go cattle tipping, which wakes the guard dogs.

Pops wanted a boy, or at least a better, girlier daughter. Don't know why he was so mad, I was his spitting' image, and had the same bad habits. But I had Mama's good ones.

I'd trade my eyes and ears for Mama. I had the worst of it, the fever, and she was getting better. Then her lungs gave, the worst coughing fit I ever heard, and that was that. Pops would probably agree, as he was untouched, and only walked in to make sure we had water and we were sweating out our fevers. It was a couple hours after she died that he noticed. And that stuck with me for a while. But.. he meant well. And he couldn't get sick. Who'd watch the cows?

But now, I'm grown. And splitting rocks. And fucking guards for warmer water and more outside time. And Mrs. Hazel remarried, for the fourth time, and is now pregnant at fourty-three. I hope her child spits in her oatmeal some day.