Thirty Acres
by Aubrie Dickson
There’s a scar on my elbow, thick and pink from Dad pushing me down when he saw a snake. Despite the burst open skin and rattling pain, seeing him act out of fear made me laugh. When he would yell, I’d touch the scar to soothe. To know under loud voices is just a scared boy. On our land is a manmade pond we stock with fish. A truck pulls up with an order of bass, perches, and catfish. They shuffle from one confinement to the next. Throbbing gills and blubbering mouths. It’s the same Catfish with its slime whiskers and hook scars, falling for the same bait. I talk to the neighbors’ cows at the fence and get offended when they run away. I shuffle through grass with a hatchet dangling at my thigh. Get another scar on my jaw from lifting a paddleboard only to find a skunk, and getting caught in the weeds when I ran from it. Great grandpa’s WWI draft notice is framed in the entryway. The floor is covered in mud. The house is white and haunted, and there’s a bottle of liquor in all three closets. I forage for Marlboros and smoke several on the branch of an oak tree. The ground is dead, there’s rusted barrels everywhere and hornets that can pierce your ear claim the wind. Snakeskin behind the wash machine is five feet long, and coyotes get caught on trail cams. Once the barn window was smashed and the only thing missing was a chainsaw. I’d curl into a ball and catch near death if this place was ever sold. I’ve never belonged anywhere unless it maims me.