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Learning to Fall: for us.
Momma brought out the rake and two hoes and a wheelbarrow for us to help her clean out the beds behind the fence at the back of our lot next to where the Sarber family had their pigeon coop. The pigeons cooing in their roosts sounded fake, so many of them talkin' over eachother in the background that it sounded like a radio station half tuned, half out of tune.
"I don't know what help I can be, Momma." My busted wing wouldn't let me do more than pick at the ground with the fingers on my right hand.
"You can work a shovel breaking up the ground for your pal, Terry there, who's going to help plant these tomatoes." Momma dug into the ground with her right hand behind her back just to show me it could be done.
"I hate tomatoes." Terry really does have a squeaking problem. He sounds like he's on helium all the time now. Momma says we shouldn't laugh at him; that his voice is changing early and soon his voice will rumble like a young man's.
"Well, young man...," Momma put her hands on either side of Terry's face, the way she does to me and it made me a little jealous seein' her hold his face like that. "You don't have to like them to plant them."
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