The Summer of Blue Jays

     It was August. That meant buzzing my hair short and having permanently sticky skin. 
     It was August. Which meant I still had a life I’d yet to begin.  
     Grandmom and Pops had about fifty-two acres of the Old Dominion all to themselves. They’d made it their home, even though they knew what grew in the soil. Even though they’d held it in their hands and felt the searing flame melt away the skin on their palms. I used to stare up at mountains so blue. I’d lay beneath the sweet gums, feeling the creek water reclaim the mud stuck between my toes. I’d sit there on the bank, watching the bullfrog watch the dragonfly, and I’d wonder why. 
     Like all the rest of ‘em in Sundee school, I said my prayers to our Savior twice a day. Once when we’d gather round the dining table—a simple slab of oakwood Pops had carved out of a fallen tree—to bless the food his wife made. Then again when I’d kneel by my bedside and thank my Maker for another day. I don’t know if He listens. Mamaw says He does, but I don’t know why He would. 
     Early one day, before morning had its chance to chase away the moonlight, when the dirt was still cool, I slipped out to the stables. Satuhdays were the Lord’s day off, but these fat-bellied porkers didn’t know that. All they know is how to clear corn and soybeans from the trough. They’ll never know what it’s like to leave that pen. Never know the Little Dipper’s the one with the Star. So, I spent that morning, and all the days like it, up before the rooster sang knee-deep in mud and pig shit. 
     I’d been so focused on breathing though my mouth, I almost didn’t notice the sunshine peeking over through the tops of the trees. A slight breeze whistled through the leaves, and I could sense the lightest tingle of electricity in the air. A storm was coming later. Booming thunder and shocks of lightning. Sheets of rain crashing into earth. But for now, sunshine. 
Leaving the pigs to their breakfast, I made my way over to a large sycamore tree. It was a magnificent sight, nurtured by a lifetime of love and pig manure. By then, it stood twice as tall as the house and provided ample shade for hot, muggy days. I sat underneath, letting my curls mingle with its bark. But even with shelter, the late summer heat was approaching unbearable. Clumsily, I climbed out of a pair of too-big boots and headed toward the hose. As I was basking in the cool spray of ground water, I heard the creak of the screen door being opened. Around the corner came Pops, five-gallon bucket in hand. He walked towards me, tipping his hat. “Gram’s at work. Wanna go fishin’?”
     A ways away, down the hill and through the woods, was a quiet river deep enough to fish in. It was far enough away that the townsfolk never bothered. You could holler at the tops of your lungs and no one would hear a sound. Crisp, clean water surrounded by hundreds of trees, older than Pops or even his Pops. And we were two of maybe a handful of people who’d ever get to see it. 
     As we hiked through those woods, I found myself watching my grandfather as he watched the sky. For as long as I could remember, Pops always loved birds. Loved the way they chirped. Loved the way they flew. Loved how they could sail high above the trees, unchained by the weight of the world. It was if seeing them in the sky gave him a taste of what it was like to be limitless. 
     After about an hour or so of walking, the brush started to thin out and the bank of the river came into view. The familiar sound of rushing water hit my ears and I could almost feel the water on my skin. I sprinted ahead, giddy with laughter, and leapt into the stream. 
     “That your idea of fishin’?” my grandpa said to me. 
     My lips broke into a cheerful grin, “Sure is.” 
     “Well, alrighty then.”
     My Pops used to tell me that a day spent outside is a day spent living. There was never a joy so sweet as crouching in the mud and digging up earthworms. Feeling the sun dry the water on your back. Feeling the way it fills your soul with a wholeness you can’t find anywhere else. I wished I could’ve spent all my days at that riverbank. I wished I could’ve gotten just a bit more. 
    On the way home, I asked Pops to tell me the names of the birds we saw. He pointed out a few cardinals, some ravens, and a couple woodpeckers.  He told me about their habits and migratory patterns. About the lengths a Mama bird goes to in order to feed and protect her children. He told me how the whole forest is their home, not just their nest. 
Before I knew it, we were almost back to the house. Pops was telling me about a blue jay we’d just seen when, near the edge of the thicket, I caught a whiff of an acrid smell. I looked up and saw plumes of smoke reaching up toward the sky.       Reaching like how Mamaw does when she feels the touch of a spirit in church. The feathers on her hat breaking free, falling to the floor. Smoke looming overhead. Ash on the ground and in the wind. Three large crosses and the limbs of a sycamore burned hot against the breeze.  
   It wasn’t until I was halfway across the field that I realized my legs were moving. Faint crackling became a roar of death. Pigs screeching. Wind howling. Branches and twigs and leaves crying out to me as they disappeared into sea of black ash. Death all around me, I searched for His face. I prayed and screamed and begged time to change back. And as all hope fell from my heart, I looked up at the flames before me and I realized no one was ever going to answer.
.   .   .   .
   Too late, the skies opened up. Buckets of rain began pouring down over the remnants of our tree. Slowly the blaze quieted, and rivers stained with ash began making their way home. I let my knees crash into the dirt below them. I reached my hands into blades of grass and made fists full of wet soil. I held them against my breast and laid down on the ground. I stayed there, flat against the earth, watching the raindrops fall from the sky. 
When Mamaw turned into the driveway later that evening, it’d been raining for several hours. She ignored the charred wood as she climbed up the hill in her Ford Falcon. She ignored the way the mud clung to her pumps as she walked toward her house. She ignored the way the screen door slapped shut behind her when she stepped inside. And she ignored the Lord’s pleas to turn the other cheek when she told her husband and oldest son to go get the guns. 
    A few phone calls later and I was sitting in the back of Pops’ old pickup, listening to the rumble of the engine. On my lap was eight rounds of buckshot and the shotgun I’d gotten for my birthday that year. Mamaw said she’d be damned if anybody was gonna come and mess with her land, so she called all the sisters and brothers and cousins she knew. Pops grabbed me by my shoulders and took my face between dry warm hands. I looked up into the face we shared. Dark brown eyes replete with decades of familiar anguish. Wrinkled, cracked skin kissed from years of being in the sun. His face told me something he could not, and for the first time, I finally understood why. 
    Driving into town, the trees turned into fields who eventually gave way to unfamiliar roads, polished and perfected with not a pothole in sight. Where the houses all look the same, with concrete sidewalks and manicured lawns. White picket fences and mailboxes with tiny red flags on ‘em. We drove on past, three truckloads of us. Three truckloads of you-know-whats slowly creeping along down silent streets they didn’t belong to. From behind cotton drapes, watchful blue eyes peeked through windows. Yet not a soul stepped outside. 
   We continued down suburban roads, passing the white church and its annual summer picnic. Mothers gathered their blonde-haired children, clutching them close against their breasts. We passed the town’s only high school, with only three Black students on its roster. Eventually, we sauntered into the town square, where sat the town’s tallest building, the courthouse. Justice hidden behind mighty white columns. The flagpole situated out front stood almost as tall. I watched two young boys hoist two large flags up into the air. Beneath the stars and stripes was a lady standing victorious, a fallen king at her feet. Between ripples of dark blue fabric, I saw three words written below. I didn’t know Latin, but I knew it meant the good guys always win in the end.  
    We continued down wet pavement, back to dirt roads and bare feet. The clouds pulled back and let the sun return for a final bow. It shined down on the asphalt, creating a brilliant rainbow-colored sheen. I let its warmth darken my already brown skin and listened to birds singing on sagging power lines.