Busted Axles and Bald Tires
Iâll like you forever, Iâll love you for always As long as Iâm living, my baby youâll be.
The fence was run down, now. It was a good dayâs work- hammering nails and drilling bolts and the smell of old pine wood from the thicket that still had a line of old offering in front of it.
The old truckâs axle busted- a good few hours in the barn today; grease up to his elbows and a smear on his cheek like when he was 11, 12, 19 and taking care of a world that never wanted him.
âBabyboy, come âlong now- âs suppertime.â
He extricated himself from the quiet, wiping his forehead with an old rag he tucked back into a frayed pocket, âMa, you shouldnât be outside- you could fall or twist something from the mole mounds-â
She huffed, chuckling in tones colored by bourbon and strife, âCome on now, childâoâmine, you know me anâ this here soil go way back. Tâwouldnât hurt me if it wanted to.â
A sigh and a shake of his head as she turned back around, the end of her cane thumping gently on hard packed dirt and memories of days in sepia.
He hustled his steps, keeping by her side and wrapping a boughbranch arm around her shoulders to keep her shawl in place. Strong as the trees and wild as the winds; he stood head and shoulders over her but still measured his steps to hers with mathematical perfection.
He would not be here, after all, had she not willed him into being with crystal tears and a forgemasterâs temper.
âMimi done got alla the kids up and ready for bed- you oughta give that girl a check yâknow. Sheâs got somethinâ hidinâ in her spirit. Makes her eyes dull like a toad in winnertide.â
He nods, frowning at the rickets in the stairs as he let her lean against him with each step. Sure as stone and riverbanks but still with a shake he never remembered from before.
âAnnat Quickdraw- beautiful baby boy but heâs got a stuck shed now; like âose olâ lizards you caught as a munchikin. He needs to breathe, let himself rest and wiggle on free. Itâs âat SCHOOL a his I just know it-â
He let her continue her muttering, unable to stop the smile it brought to his face as the front door opened and they headed in- he ducked to just miss the doorframe and she shook her head, huffing something about âBoys growinâ like olâ weeds til they git plantid in the ground.â
He veered carefully off to the side bathroom- the first floor restroom, âpowder roomâ his mother and grandmother always called it. The water in the sink hissed to life with the twist of a yellowed knob and he washed the grease and oil from his skin and hummed a tune he had heard that morning on the radio.
He ignored the grey curls he say at his temples.
The house was quiet, but not. He heard the huffs and snuffles of the snoring kids and adolescents through the old vent system as he dried his hands and then the scuffle of the attic bats that his mother had grown begrudgingly attached to since they ate the mosquitoes and sweatbees.
The house was country quiet, and it felt.... like home. Like home in a way Iacon and the Rebuild Zone and New Altihex didnât.
The crick-creak of his motherâs rocking chair greeted him as he stepped out. He blinked, seeing a familiar little basin and boarbristle brush- and a familiar old comb.
Aged and still shining, wooden with a silvery handle made of songbirds and ivy.
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off to show his tshirt, toed his shoes off and nudged them nearer to the overburdened shoe rack by the door.
âMa?â
âThere ya are- câmon now, siddown. Yer hairâs a mess and yer voice is gettinâ that allergy rough.â
She pointed at the mug on her side table, steam rising in gentle coils like sweaterwool and quilt stuffing.
âMa, Iâm grown now, I can-â
âAnd? Donât right care how grown yâgit, babyboy.â, she said with a beckon of her finger, âYou can be a million million years oldeân the oldest star, but youâre my baby boy.â
She turned, her eyes soft and wet and knowing, âAnd I know you been burninâ it at both ends, baby. You got the candlesmoke round your curls like a lost comet. Câmere- itâs high time Mama took care a you for a liâl while.â
Something cracked in his chest. He wasnât sure if it was his heart or the ribcage holding all his mourning but his steps were shuffled and unsteady as he went to her chair, and sat down with a soft thump on the carpet that still smelled lightly of fresh lavender and washing soda and sunshine.
When was the last time someone healed the healer?
He scooted over, like a tired son or a lost boy in a fairytale about fearing time- And leaned against his Motherâs knee as she used her fingers (swollen and arthritic and only half a full set) to damp down firepit curls enough for the comb to glide. She paused long enough, to pass him tea with honey and molasses and a little cream just like young boys like when the flowerdust makes them sneeze.
He curled on instinct, eyelids already heavy halfway through an off white mug worn from aeons of tiny hands clinging tight, heard the soft sssh-sssh of curls being combed back and patted dry while his mother hummed a lullably.
And soon, comb and brush were absent, the sound of an old movie lacking color but overflowing with tone mumbling out into the air...Â
She shakes her head gently, taking the mug from calloused war-hero hands and setting it back upon the table. She leans, kissing the mop of damp but tight curls and feels hands that resurrected God cling to her skirt like when he was so small, so small and fiery and scared just like her. The same fear she swallowed down when her belly swelled seemed to have rooted in the little boy she protected with the fierceness of Nature.
And he grew, oh he grew.
He snored, too- soft and stuttery and she couldnât help the brimming tears in her eyes. She nudged him, he mumbled, blinking in dim light but seeing nothing.
âCome on, Ratchet. Itâs time for bed.â
âMm. Mkay mama.â
Her good arm guided her tired son through old halls, coaxing him to drop into the bed that had grown with him and stayed even after him. He burrowed his face into the pillows and yawned- with a sneeze at the end. As he always did.
âMmmmllergies.â
âIâll make ya more tea in thâmorninâ, sugarplum.â, she said to him, her voice soft and loving and motherly and all manner of safe.
She pulled his blankets up, carefully tucking just the edges in in case he tossed in his sleep (heâd always slept restless- the first sign something was wrong was how still he slept now).
He hummed in his sleep, nuzzling into warmth and the smell of laundry on the line.
She kissed his temple, running fingers through his curls he still never really took care of.
âMy liâl spitfire.â, she said fondly, âI hope... I hope to all the heavens you know.â
She used her shawl to dab her eyes, âI hope you know, for all my bourbon bitter and old snark. Iâm proud of you, baby boy. Iâm so, so proud of you. Rest now. Let the olâ world turn wiâout you for a while.â
âLâve you mama.â
How sleepy he sounded, how young without youth. Were it not for the bulk of years on battlefields and the grew wisps at his temples, why... It could be her little boy once again, home from a long day of baling hay to help pay for his courses uptown.
âI love you too, Ratchling.â
Her steps were quiet as she left the room, her heart warm and sore like a soldierâs march home.
Ratchet slept peacefully, moonlight dim through the window as his mother bedded down for the night.
Tomorrow was another day; the fence was run down now, and the old truck had a busted axle and bald tires.
And the pair of them were the best at fixing stubborn problems.
















