The Cornfield

It was a cornfield on a hill slope, far away. A lonely field amid green and blue hills where white and dark clouds rested. I was born in those hills under a lucky star. It was a field the family harvested long ago. Long ago, when we could still breath the air we inhaled. I do not remember how long ago. But I remember the field. My mother used to carry me there. She used to sit me down on a nice grassy patch as she went about working away the day in the field.

The picture is so vivid still. I was small. I ran barefoot there, wild and free, against the breeze blowing my unkempt, limp and yellow hair all over my pale face. Many times I spoke to the wind. I spoke to the empty space around me for I did not know how to speak to myself then. I spoke to the little birdy. I spoke to the weeds and yellow prim roses. I spoke to white and violets that bloomed low and small all around. I spoke to the trees, ants and beetles, and the little butterflies flitting in the field. I shouted in the wind. My voice of innocence echoed all around.

While I waited for mama to return and carry me home, I wove many pretty stories in the wind, under the sun. The sun always shone. My stories traveled through colourful rainbow sunbeams that one could see only when the weather is so fine. The weather was always fine in the funny but sweet stories my little unsullied mind wove. Short stories with no end, but you could actually hear the giggles, the hush, the cry, the laughter and the lion roar. Now you know, some days when you can’t find me anywhere, you will always find pieces of me in them cornfields.

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