Goodbye at the Cowshed
Maggie’s calloused hands worked the cow udder tenderly but with the meaningful strength of a child who holds their mother’s finger for the first time. The animal was black and white, the way Maggie saw the world and in the instance of farming, she took a fierce ethical approach. Maggie didn’t make much from selling cow milk. The local grocer had been her only buyer for years. However, she counted trading as profit having gained many potatoes and bags of cement for swapping her bottles of pearly white. Townspeople awarded her milk medals for its elegant creaminess and lush fullness. Pinching the last spout, she patted the cow sweetly between its circular brown eyes adorned with thick feathery lashes. It mooed and then left the shed.
Thelma breathed through a half plank in the north facing sunlit space between the kitchen and the lounge room. Her triceps were saggy and thin like the leathery lined skin of a rooster’s wattle. Maggie watched her wife while sucking on a tea-dunked shortbread, the sugar granules melting on her tongue. Her black brow furrowed. It worried her, all that wellness exercise. Last month upon returning from a delivery she had found Thelma with her knees bent backward, numb. Her torso leant on top of the pile of limbs. For Maggie, yoga was in the hocus-pocus pile with tarot cards and juice bars. Though if it made Thelma happy she’d at the very least pretend to accept. Due to neglect for wearing their hearing aids, the home phone rang with obtrusive brightness. Maggie let it ring; she already knew it would be their son Thomas. She believed that he was overprotective as a way of distracting himself from the disaster his own life was. Last time he visited with a present. A personal alarm each for the instance of alerting an ambulance when far from the house. True to Thelma’s nature, she’d been kind about their son’s wishes and habitually carried it on her person. Maggie had sprayed her coffee in a berry bush at the idea. She told him to fuck off and that death was a natural part of life. Hell, he should have known that growing up here. After all, his hand was once often a teammate with gravity when slicing an axe blade through the limber neck of a chicken. No, the personal alarm had been thrown in the bin. The phone gave a final echo through the gnarled boards of the farmhouse then allowed the atmosphere to return to silence.
“You want two dollops?” Thelma’s voice was always a song.
“Just the one love.” Maggie scooped the blue china bowl closer and shoveled down her morning muesli.
“This’ll get your bowels moving Mag.”
Thelma finished her breakfast and whacked on her mid calf length parakeet green gumboots. When in the garden, her footwear blended with the background giving the appearance of a floating woman. Maggie helped her wife in the leafy veggie patch. The spring sun glittered through fluffy cherry pink and lemon white blossoms. Fresh smelling soil muddied their naked arthritic hands as they dug holes for silver beet and kale. Thomas’ car quickly rumbled up the dirt drive, a haze of copper dust behind him. Spotting his parents, he slammed the car shut and marched over.
“Surprise, surprise!” Maggie snickered, continuing her work. “Our glorious child.”
He grimaced, bowing his eyes to his feet. Thelma stabbed her trowel into the dirt and met her son more intimately.
Without hesitancy, “So you’re alive Mum?”
“As fit as an old bull.”
Thelma and Thomas traded secrets albeit no whispers were necessary for Maggie’s equal deafness and disinterest. The son turned back to his gardening Mother.
“If you don’t answer your phone, how will I know if you’re ok?”
She grunted, pushing her body up from her knees and grabbing the metal pail off the fence.
“It would be smart to sell the farm Mum.”
That hit Maggie hard, “I’ll die on this bleeding farm. I’ll be buried right here. I’m not budging.”
She bore her child a lethal stare, started up the garden path then instantly retraced her steps and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. With her bucket in tow, she trudged off to bursting udders. Thelma held Thomas’ hand and bestowed an apologetic smile. The man, holding in a lifetime of fretfulness, let out an exhale that pushed wind through the peach trees along the back fence line.
The summer was of unforgiving heat. Maggie rushed the hose into the cow’s troughs. Just as quickly as it poured it seemed to be kidnapped by the relentless swelter. A predominately black cow started bellowing quickly. Thelma patted her softly. Maggie turned off the hose and stumbled back toward her wife. Stopping suddenly she grabbed her chest. Her jaw clinched. A sweat dampened her forehead. Her body fell in the overgrown dry wheat grass. Thelma reached for her personal alarm but then realised the smile on Maggie’s face. It was of youthful devilishness and humour similar to the way a plucky child feels adrenaline when jumping a big dirt mound and then falling from their bike. Thelma returned the device to her denim overalls, kissing goodbye on the lips. It had taken Thelma two hours and fifty minutes to dig a hole in the arid bronze earth, place Maggie in it and fill. When finished, she slapped the freshly covered dirt with the back of her shovel. Remembering how to pray from an era of Catholic Girls’ School but not having since performed such an act, Thelma knelt for a makeshift speech of spirits. The sun faded into a soft dove blue and families of cows reprieved in shadows wetting their pink mouths in troughs. Thelma wiped her sweaty smoke grey coloured hair and thrust her worn straw hat into her pocket. The farm was still. A slight wind jostled yellow paddocks. A wild sunflower patch stood tall. A chicken cooed in the distance. And then, rain.
Thelma breathed through a half plank in the north facing sunlit space between the kitchen and the lounge room. Her triceps were saggy and thin like the leathery lined skin of a rooster’s wattle. Maggie watched her wife while sucking on a tea-dunked shortbread, the sugar granules melting on her tongue. Her black brow furrowed. It worried her, all that wellness exercise. Last month upon returning from a delivery she had found Thelma with her knees bent backward, numb. Her torso leant on top of the pile of limbs. For Maggie, yoga was in the hocus-pocus pile with tarot cards and juice bars. Though if it made Thelma happy she’d at the very least pretend to accept. Due to neglect for wearing their hearing aids, the home phone rang with obtrusive brightness. Maggie let it ring; she already knew it would be their son Thomas. She believed that he was overprotective as a way of distracting himself from the disaster his own life was. Last time he visited with a present. A personal alarm each for the instance of alerting an ambulance when far from the house. True to Thelma’s nature, she’d been kind about their son’s wishes and habitually carried it on her person. Maggie had sprayed her coffee in a berry bush at the idea. She told him to fuck off and that death was a natural part of life. Hell, he should have known that growing up here. After all, his hand was once often a teammate with gravity when slicing an axe blade through the limber neck of a chicken. No, the personal alarm had been thrown in the bin. The phone gave a final echo through the gnarled boards of the farmhouse then allowed the atmosphere to return to silence.
“You want two dollops?” Thelma’s voice was always a song.
“Just the one love.” Maggie scooped the blue china bowl closer and shoveled down her morning muesli.
“This’ll get your bowels moving Mag.”
Thelma finished her breakfast and whacked on her mid calf length parakeet green gumboots. When in the garden, her footwear blended with the background giving the appearance of a floating woman. Maggie helped her wife in the leafy veggie patch. The spring sun glittered through fluffy cherry pink and lemon white blossoms. Fresh smelling soil muddied their naked arthritic hands as they dug holes for silver beet and kale. Thomas’ car quickly rumbled up the dirt drive, a haze of copper dust behind him. Spotting his parents, he slammed the car shut and marched over.
“Surprise, surprise!” Maggie snickered, continuing her work. “Our glorious child.”
He grimaced, bowing his eyes to his feet. Thelma stabbed her trowel into the dirt and met her son more intimately.
Without hesitancy, “So you’re alive Mum?”
“As fit as an old bull.”
Thelma and Thomas traded secrets albeit no whispers were necessary for Maggie’s equal deafness and disinterest. The son turned back to his gardening Mother.
“If you don’t answer your phone, how will I know if you’re ok?”
She grunted, pushing her body up from her knees and grabbing the metal pail off the fence.
“It would be smart to sell the farm Mum.”
That hit Maggie hard, “I’ll die on this bleeding farm. I’ll be buried right here. I’m not budging.”
She bore her child a lethal stare, started up the garden path then instantly retraced her steps and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. With her bucket in tow, she trudged off to bursting udders. Thelma held Thomas’ hand and bestowed an apologetic smile. The man, holding in a lifetime of fretfulness, let out an exhale that pushed wind through the peach trees along the back fence line.
The summer was of unforgiving heat. Maggie rushed the hose into the cow’s troughs. Just as quickly as it poured it seemed to be kidnapped by the relentless swelter. A predominately black cow started bellowing quickly. Thelma patted her softly. Maggie turned off the hose and stumbled back toward her wife. Stopping suddenly she grabbed her chest. Her jaw clinched. A sweat dampened her forehead. Her body fell in the overgrown dry wheat grass. Thelma reached for her personal alarm but then realised the smile on Maggie’s face. It was of youthful devilishness and humour similar to the way a plucky child feels adrenaline when jumping a big dirt mound and then falling from their bike. Thelma returned the device to her denim overalls, kissing goodbye on the lips. It had taken Thelma two hours and fifty minutes to dig a hole in the arid bronze earth, place Maggie in it and fill. When finished, she slapped the freshly covered dirt with the back of her shovel. Remembering how to pray from an era of Catholic Girls’ School but not having since performed such an act, Thelma knelt for a makeshift speech of spirits. The sun faded into a soft dove blue and families of cows reprieved in shadows wetting their pink mouths in troughs. Thelma wiped her sweaty smoke grey coloured hair and thrust her worn straw hat into her pocket. The farm was still. A slight wind jostled yellow paddocks. A wild sunflower patch stood tall. A chicken cooed in the distance. And then, rain.
