Mama was a Bible-fearing Christian. I knew she was because she'd been telling me so darn near every day for as long as I could remember. She was a regular churchgoer, my mama was. Not just on Sundays, either: for a long time she had made it a habit to go to private Bible study sessions on weeknights with Pastor Reeves, the young assistant to Pastor Johnson, a venerable, gray-haired minister who had presided over our church since before I was born. Mama kept her appointments for those sessions nearly every Tuesday and Thursday until Pastor Reeves moved away to start his own church three counties to the West of ours. I was never too keen about religion, myself, but it seemed to do Mama a heap of good. She had a skip in her step and a glow on her cheeks every time she came back from those afternoon sessions with Pastor Reeves.

Mama was never exactly the most talkative person. Papa wasn't either. But after Pastor Reeves left, it felt like Mama was quieter than before. She was grimmer in the face, too, and more prone to get snappy and peeved at little things, like when I didn't clean my fingernails carefully enough at the end of the day when I came in from the fields for supper. I was a grown man by then, 24 years old, but still living on the family farm. I cannot honestly say that I had the most observant eye for the moods of women, but even with my limited skill, I could see something was bothering Mama. One day I asked her about it. "Mama, is something wrong?" Mama was in the kitchen, shucking corn, and I'd just come in from slopping the hogs. I wiped my feet on the mat inside the door. Mama didn't answer right away. She looked at me with a look I couldn't read. "Why do you ask, Jubal?" "Just seems like you've been out of sorts for a while," I said. "No," she said. "I'm fine. Don't you worry." I knew enough about Mama to know that was that, and I wasn't going to get another word from her on that subject. I went to the bathroom to clean up for dinner. I heard the door slam and knew that Papa was back from the feed store. Dinner was delicious, as usual, but quiet. Mama was an able cook, and as far as I was concerned, she couldn't go wrong serving fried chicken with biscuits and buttered corn on the cob, which is what we ate. As usual, nobody said much. I noticed Mama looking at Papa a lot, like she wanted him to say something, but he didn't have much to say other than complimenting Mama once on her fried chicken and boasting about the good price he got at the feed store.

When the meal was done, After a few minutes, I heard Mama's voice rise over the din. It sounded like she was complaining about something to Papa, but I couldn't tell what she was saying, and I knew better than to eavesdrop. When the last dish was washed, I left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to my room and closed the door. The next morning, a Saturday, I got up, early as usual, just before dawn, and I showered and dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. Mama was in the kitchen, but not Papa. "Papa's gone hunting with the boys," Mama explained. "He'll be gone all day. He said to tell you to feed the animals, but when you're done you can take the rest of the day off." It was a welcome thing to hear, because I thought I'd be tilling the fields after tending to the animals. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with myself. Breakfast was a quiet affair of eggs and bacon and pancakes. I didn't say much, and neither did Mama. But I had the feeling she wanted to say something. She fidgeted in her chair throughout breakfast, like she was trying to make up her mind about something but wasn't sure what to do or say about it. I noticed she was dressed more nicely than usual, too. She wore a tight-fitting print dress that hugged her curves and showed off more of her legs than usual. Mama was a pretty woman. She had me when she was only 19 that made her 43. The life of a farmer's wife had left some lines on her face, but Mama still looked youthful and pretty. It seemed like she'd taken extra care brushing her hair that morning, because it fell in soft shiny waves around her shoulders. I didn't have much of an eye for such things, but even I could tell she was wearing more makeup than usual. After breakfast, I offered to clean up again. "No, Jubal, I'll do it. You get to the animals. Get done quick and come back. There's something I want to talk about." "What is it, Mama?" "We'll talk later. First, tend to the animals." I wasn't one to argue with Mama. We didn't have a big farm, or a big barn, so it didn't take too long to feed the chickens, hogs, cows, and horses and to do some cleanup. Two hours later, chores done, I was back in the house, coming through the back door into the kitchen again. Mama was there. "Wash up, Jubal," she said. "When you're done, come to my room. I want to talk to you." I was puzzled by the strangeness of Mama's request. My parents' bedroom was like their sanctuary. It was off-limits to me, most of the time. But I did as she said, and 20 minutes later, freshly scrubbed and cleaned, and hair still damp, I knocked on Mama's closed bedroom door….

Welcome to our Farm! If you enjoyed reading, you’re welcome to be my partner. As you noticed I write as 1st person perspective. I ask for details, and some efforts. And I promise to return the same. I’m attending a mix of story, characters and developments, which means a long term setup. You can contact me via Pm chat, Or message. I’m flexible and if you’d like to change something on the prompt let’s discuss it. I’m pretty open to suggestion and like talking about anything before we start. If you still interested, let me know what’s in your mind !

Kisses ^{^}