lambs
"Cain runs, only a child, and runs, chased by his brother, and runs, a spoiled son sown in all of this soil, and runs, a fearless thing, like he can outrun everything else."
Cain is 9 and running headfirst through the tall grass, feels it whip his ankles, feels the wind picking up, feels Abel gaining on him, just runs faster, feels the laugh boil up from his throat and throws it into the air behind him, throws it like a bird call, splits the air with it, hears it whoop and fall, hears Abel call back. Cain runs, only a child, and runs, chased by his brother, and runs, a spoiled son sown in all of this soil, and runs, a fearless thing, like he can outrun everything else. Cain and Abel, just children, outrunning the desert, just children, outrunning the wasteland, the garden, the snake, the birds, the manger, the sky, their father, each other, the whoop and call, the stone in Cain’s fist. Cain’s foot catches, knee hits the dirt, shoulder plants hard after it, rolls. Cain is lost in the tall grass, graceless and crumpling down the hill, still laughing, still whooping to his brother, now rolling after him, like this is not a fall, but just another game, just another way he can be like his brother, just another set of footprints he can chase after, just another frolic in the fields behind their home, when their father isn’t looking. They collide in a heap at the base of the hill, breathless, still laughing, panting between cackles, shoving each other’s shoulders, seeing who is worse for wear. Abel flops back into the weeds, spreads his arms out like wings, brings his legs up towards the sky, thinks he is a bird. Cain sees him as an angel with wings made of tall green and a halo made of dirt and dandelions. He rolls back beside him, smothers his hand in his baby brother’s hair, musses his crown, no more halo, now just a bird again. They lie there, quiet now, while the wind whistles above them, watching the clouds cluster low and dark in the distance, the blades of grass hissing against their bare arms. Cain slips the stone from his palm into his pocket, has been clutching it so hard it has left a mark. He tucks his hands back under his head. His hair is past his shoulders, is knotted the way a child’s must always be. “Where is heaven?” Abel asks. Lightning dances on the edge of the horizon, the thunder is just a low hum, the rain hasn’t even started yet. I don’t know, because Cain doesn’t, has never asked. Somewhere. Cain wonders how close they must be to it, here in the field, waiting for the rain to come in. He wonders how far off the storm must be, whether it will bring heaven with it, wonders if they can outrun that, too.
A vignette that has been running through the field of my dreams.
I haven’t written in almost a year, but sometimes it just bubbles up and out of me. These boys are still running. The field has no edges.
Little Inspirations:
- “Willing and Able” by Noah Kahan
- Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones, for prose that starts running and carries you along with it, and for young boys on front porches in the dark, waiting to get down on all fours