HOMESTEAD

POSTCARD #23 • Scrape... Thump...

Scrape.

The spade stabs into the mound. Its contents mostly hold form as they’re tossed into the hole beside it.

Thump.

One down.

Scrape.

The freshly dug earth is sweet and damp, reminding Garrett why they settled here in the first place.

Thump.

He stops for a moment, wipes his brow, looks back at the house he and Tanner built. He breathes in deep, taking in the scent of the air and blooms and woods before returning to the task at hand.

Scrape.

His calloused hands feel the texture of the soil through the spade’s wooden handle. Familiar. Intimate. It ought to be, Garrett’s moved enough of that soil since they came.

Thump.

The dead man’s face is nearly covered. Granules of loam stick to the places where the blood hasn’t quite dried, but the man doesn’t stink yet. Well, not like death. There’s the reek of his unwashed body, voided bowels, congealed blood, but no decay. The flies haven’t even found him yet.

Scrape.

The handle is worn smooth from years of use. Garrett reflects on the time when the tool was still new. He and Tanner had come seeking serenity. They’d found it here. Had built the place together—one shovelful, one stone, one felled tree at a time.

Thump.

The dead man’s face is no longer visible, his body mostly covered by the loose soil. Miniature peaks and valleys still resemble the man beneath, but those will soon level out.

Scrape.

Fresh cooking joins the collection of aromas. Smoke rises gently from the stone chimney of the rough hewn house behind him.

Tanner must be getting supper ready. Good. Garrett’s stomach growls.

He tosses another spadeful into the hole. The mound is getting smaller. The hole is filling up. It’s the last of three, then he’ll call it a day.

He and Tanner had gotten up that morning intending to start work on the lower field. Stump removal, stone picking, brush burning. They’d set those plans aside when the three men arrived, waving guns, threatening to burn the place down. Our place.

Thump.

A cool breeze picks up, blows across Garrett’s neck. He smiles, thinking of the way Tanner’s face had lit up when they’d first broken ground. How they’d slept that night, in each other’s arms, beneath an endless sky full of stars and possibility. How they’d laughed at the chill of the creek the next morning when they’d bathed and then made love on the grassy bank.

Scrape.

How dare these men try to take this from us.

Garrett tosses the next spadeful, watches it land with satisfaction.

Thump.

The shape of the body is no longer visible. The marauders won’t be a bother to anyone else. Ever.

It’s better than they deserve.

Scrape.

Garrett has no respect for people who only take and never give.

Thump.

The hole is nearly full and the sun hangs low. Long shadows creep across the valley floor below.

Scrape.

Almost done.

Thump.

The mound is nearly gone. A few more spadefuls should do it.

Scrape.

Thump.

Scrape.

Thump.

Garrett takes his time finishing the job. When he’s done, he tamps the loose dirt down with the flat of the blade and stabs the spade into the ground, leans on it, admires his work. They’re the first graves he’s had to dig since their arrival, but he doubts they’ll be the last. The world is full of takers.

Tanner and I can handle them. If not, we’ll die trying, defending what’s ours.

Strong arms grab him from behind, reach around his waist, pull him close. Garrett feels Tanner’s whiskers against his neck, goosebumps rise at the tender kisses. His lover smells sweet and musky, like the land. He turns into the embrace and the pair hold each other close for a while.

“I love you,” Tanner whispers.

“I love you, too.”

The kiss is brief, but intense. When it ends, Tanner plants his hands on Garrett’s shoulders, pushes him to arm’s distance, looks into his eyes and smiles. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Let’s eat.”

Garrett nods, pulls the spade from the ground, hawks and spits on the grave before following Tanner inside. Garrett looks back once more before closing the door behind them.

Life is good.

—