Set on an edge of a forest of tall oak trees sat an old white farmhouse. It was a fairly large two-story home built high off the ground to avoid the floods. The paint on its sides was almost completely chipped away. Some panes of glass were replaced by plywood. An old, but sturdy slate roof protected it from stormy Mississippi nights. A large front porch, which ran the length of the house, looked out onto a cotton field.  The forest ran around the home, and around the huge rectangular field, but now the field was a sea of weeds and dead plants.  The only farming that took place was a vegetable garden growing in the field.  An old barn laid out back, empty except for some chickens, its doors hung on by only their top hinges. A well that looked as if it had been there since before the Civil War sat near the faded red barn. A grave lay on the north side of the home. An old bumpy road meandered through the forest, leading to the road to town.

The downstairs of the house was decorated with a few chairs and tables. The area looked large with the scarce furniture, and the kitchen was almost empty. Once white drapes hung from the windows, but now they were yellow with age. Three bedrooms lay upstairs, although there was only one resident. Every morning when the sun rose, Selma Johnson would wash her face, put on her overalls and shirt, and slowly make her way to the front porch. She would watch the light pour through the trees as the sun rose in the east. The morning light brought such a big smile to her face that her glasses would fall off her nose. She would wait until the sun rose above the trees, then go get some eggs from the barn for an omelet. She usually sat on the porch all day rocking her old creaky wooden rocking chair. Selma would not read, or sing, or find something to do; she would look at the field and the trees.  Selma smiled when the sun rose, and when it set, her glasses would fall off her face, again, and onto the porch.

One fine April morning, Selma’s neighbor and main visitor John Crey came by to visit.  John walked out of the trees across the field. He was a large eighteen-year-old, whose body was built hard and strong. He walked slowly through the field of weeds. The sun shined brightly on his chest, and the morning dew dampened the bottom of his pants. His face was somber until he caught sight of Miss Selma. Then he smiled at his old friend. He walked to the front of the porch and asked,

“Good mornin’ Miss Selma, do you have any butter’?”

“Now Johnny, you always comin’ over here asking me for butter when you know I have gone and sold that cow over a year ago.  I can’t take care of no cow, always shittin’ everywhere, makin’ smells, just for some milk.”

“I know Miss Selma.  How’s everything?”

“All right, Johnny.  Now listen I might be old and white-haired but that don’t mean I can’t take care of myself. Now I’m fine….  How’s your father?”

“Good….  This sure is a nice field for farming.  I like a farm like this.”

“You got your family’s, but I know it hasn’t been farmed since Cleatis died eight years ago, it’s as fertile as a Carolina virgin.”

“You dirty, Miss Selma… our farm is so much smaller, filled with rocks, and it’s my dad’s.”

“Johnny, you’ll have one of your own someday.”  John looked at little Miss Selma and shook his head.

“I ain’t never going to have no farm.”

“Bye Johnny.”

Selma smirked and watched Johnny walked back into the forest.

“That boy sure is nice,” Selma said out loud.

****

Before he died, Cleatis Johnson had walked through rows of cotton plants as the sun sunk and the day died. Selma had rocked in her chair on the porch and watched the million colors at her husband’s back as she smiled at him. Cleatis had itched his head as he approached the house.

“Why yous’ always working to all hours of the night?” she had asked.

“Someone’s got to bring the money in this family,” Cleatis had replied.

“But you old, Cleatis.”

“I might be old, but I can work,” he said as he climbed the stairs to the porch.

“Not for much longer.”

“Selma, why you always tellin’ me how old I am.”

“Cleatis, we don’t need this farm no more.”

“There you go, talking crazy about how we going to sell the farm, I ain’t selling, and that’s final.”

“I know you love the farm. Me too, but it scares me seeing the way you work, at your age.”

The couple made their way through the front door, and Cleatis sat at the dining room table as Selma prepared supper.

“Sure was a nice day, Cleatis.”

“Sure was.”

****

As the warm breezy April day fell to a close, Selma fell asleep, and the rocking chair slowed to a halt. Selma’s head sunk to her chest and her glasses slid across the floorboards of the porch.   Her shoulders shook from side to side, and her body tumbled over the arm of the chair to the north.  The chair crashed onto the porch and its legs shattered; splinters of wood spraying across the porch.  Selma lay still, curled like a baby, as the darkness of the country night set in.

****

A few days later, John Crey emerged through the forest and saw a crow walking around the front porch. He looked down to see her body sprawled out on the porch.

“MISS SELMA!” he yelled as he began to run towards the house through the sea of weeds.  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and he winced as he saw his neighbor lying dead.  He sat on the stairs, looking towards the field, and held his head in his hands. After a few minutes he slowly walked back to his house, and streams of tears fell down his cheek to the weeds to the earth.

John returned a couple of hours later, but this time he carried a shovel.  He walked past the house and began to dig a grave on the north side of the house right next to Cleatis’.  The shovel worked its way into the earth, and John dug the grave.  As he got into the hole, the dirt flew out at quick pace.  The earth was fine and light.

“John,” his father yelled as he approached the house from town with a pine box lying in the back of the carriage.

“Yes, Pa.”

“I went and told the sheriff ‘bout Selma and send me over to see if she had a will filed at city hall. They gave it to me. You should read it.”

John stepped out of the grave and opened the will as his father pulled the casket out.

“Sheriff will be out here soon to see all’s in order,” his father stated.

John read the will slowly. “January 28, 1928.  I Selma Johnson do solemn–nay be-que-ath all my earthly possessions to John Crey. A good boy who will take care of the farm, and he wants and deserves it more than anyone.” A large gaping smile appeared across his face and his eyes lit up like the August sun.

“The lady at City Hall told me that Selma sold that cow to pay for the legal fees for that will, and took out all her savings to pay property tax for five years.  You ain’t going to be poor no more!”  John spun around, looking at the trees, and the house, and he smiled like a man on his wedding day.  He threw his arms up, leaned backwards, and stared at the blue sky.

“Miss Selma!”

John walked around to the front of the house. He viewed the field for a minute, and turned to see Selma lying on the porch. The sun was setting again, and John watched it from the steps of his new home.  A gust of wind rustled the tops of the trees and swayed the weeds in the field. His father came around the corner, and they put Miss Selma in the pine box. They lowered her into the earth and filled in the hole. His father left and John kneeled on the fresh grave. He pulled her glasses out of his pocket, placing them on the grave.

This story was written in 1997 and never saw the light of day. So here it is.