written by: Barbara J Rodgers, 1991

copy written online: January 14, 2008

Through slits, she can see dots already moving quickly through the white blanket of cotton that meets the ocean-blue sky miles away. Sounds drift from the field like a whispering brook.

From behind, strong lengthy arms raise the child. Her older brother's shoulder serves as a great pillow. Smells of fresh fried potatoes and the sweetness of hot biscuits float from the brown paper bag their mother carries.

As the sun begins to sizzle, the child wakes up looking much like a small red worm with dark brown curls riding on the back of a six foot snake. She has slept like a baby  on her brother's cotton sack. As she slept, her brother filled the sack with cotton making a soft mattress for her. He rocked her as if she were in a cradle never missing a beat at picking his days wages.

The child runs through the narrow clean aisles, plucking cotton from the hand of a stalk here and there. Here the imagination allows the adventures of her mind to grow.

As lunch grows near, the sun turns to a broil, bringing with it a sweat bee or two. It also brings the time to repay big brother for his early morning ride.

She quickly finds big brother and climbs into his sack. The cotton has a strong acid odor, yet she feels covered in silk with the exception of a seed biting her at times.

Lovingly, her brother whispers for her to stop giggling as he drags sack, cotton and child. The top and toe of the lumpy sack are folded to hang on the scales putting the limber clothesline child in a U shape. Afterward the sack and child are thrown into the wagon where the child quickly tunnels down into a cloud of cotton so no one will notice. Big brother throws her a wink and a smile.

As the adults lay out lunch in the shade of the old grey wagon, the children roll in the cotton. Cold biscuits and potatoes could taste no better if they were steak. As the child sits on her mother's lap she attacks the fried pies her mother surprised everyone with.

When day ends, the children play tag on their way home. Mother, theirs and mine, one and the same, walks behind us. Strands of black curly hair peep from her bonnet. The pants she wears under her flower print dress are stained with red clay. Yet her tired brown eyes smile at her children's fun-loving game.