Remember

I remember that day very clearly. The sun was beating down on us as if we were the anvil and the sun the hammer. Relentlessly conforming us into what was desired. What was expected. It was only a matter of time before a naive blacksmith outstretched a skinny and soft arm to grab a hold of the hot metal without the chance of letting it cool down. Then the subsequent backlash of the metal, that was doomed to happen, and the jump and fright, eventual pain, of the blacksmith. Joey had given him a beating that was rather undeserved. I believe, to this day, that we both knew that. Yet, at the same time, who could blame us? Nothing to do all day besides for the monotonous bending and picking of cotton. Harley was innocent, merely just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The way the sun hits off of the field and the long distance from the farmhouse only made things easier for us. To try to escape the sun, as well as our exhaustion, we bedded down like fawns. Like fawns we were hard to see, and Harley came up over that ridge quickly. He was running for no good reason and stepped on Joey. At the time we had just begun to start into the bottle of whiskey and Harley, being the prized and loyal son of our employer, took things very seriously. Before we knew it he was cussing us out here and there, telling us to get moving or he will do more than just tell his father. Suddenly, I became aware of a heinous glare setting into Joey’s eyes. His eyes, glazed over, and yet were extremely focused at the same time. They seemed to account for everything; Harley’s clothes, shape, muscularity, twitches, the unsurprising cleanliness of his nails. That glare seemed to trigger some memory that, even though there, evaded me like little bird. Chirping, tweeting, egging me on. I did try to catch it, but it was to no avail. Besides, at the moment there were far more interesting developments occurring at the time to worry about remembering. Joey had taken a few more steps forward and now seemed to take a more aggressive stance. Tension brewed in the air, a soft gust of wind pressured my face. The kind of breeze that only foresees a dark storm approaching. Despite actually happening at a quick pace, I still replay this event in a slower motion. Joey lunged forward and caught Harley with an explosive jab to the throat. Joey, being very well built, took Harley down with ease. Harley lay there grasping at his throat, writhing about. His face turned purple. We both watched until Harley passed out.

Then Joey asked me. “Are you okay?”

Those words, like steel sparks hit over a small pile of flint, ignited a wave of memories. I do not know why those memories had not come to me before, perhaps it was the heat of the sun. I remembered the words that Joey had asked just moments before, but instead the roles were reversed. I was the one asking that deeply caring question. It was when we were both much younger and were friends with Harley as well. Before, we were too small to be doing the work of young men in the fields. So we worked around the barnyard carrying out simple and easy chores. Harley would come out and play with us when we were done and we’d have a grand old time. One day, out in the barnyard, Harley began teasing Joey. Calling him names, making fun of his goofy hair, pointing at his ripped clothes and filthy nails. Eventually Joey pushed Harley into the horse barn. Horses are not usually dangerous, but when spooked and with something behind them, things can get hairy very quickly. Long story short, Harley was kicked by a horse and went running and screaming into the farmhouse. Mr. Youngsen came storming out of the house and grabbed Joey by the hair. Dragging him over to a post, where he then took hold of rope and tied him there. A whip was presented and Joey received the meanest whipping I have ever seen. After it was over, Joey stood there hugging and crying on the post. We must’ve been there for hours before Mr. Youngsen permitted me to release Joey. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes and I carried, or more like dragged him, into the barn. His eyes were glazed over, nothing left in them.

Forty years later I still remember that day when we killed Harley Youngsen. I say ‘we’ because I allowed it to happen. I should have remembered what had happened in the past between the two of them. Harley’s trachea had been fractured and the bone had punctured an artery in his neck. He choked on his own blood. Remembering the past is essential to progressing forward. I could have stopped this all from happening if I remembered; however, that is the past now, and you can not change it, but you can prevent similar things from happening.