What a day.
I thought about writing a story, or perhaps just opening one, with a couple on a farm. They’re comfortable in their relationship and in their collaboration because they know their roles:
she kills the chickens,
and he cries and prays for them, burrying their heads and the organs they don’t eat in a small graveyard with fewer markers than residents.
This story is about me and Abby. It’s our ninth anniversary tomorrow and today she killed a rooster named Reynolds, after my favorite film, and we had our first ultrasound.
We had the ultrasound first. Baby was folded up and in funny positions so Abby had to dance so we could get a good view of their heart, their kidneys, their profile.
I really like the pictures of her dancing, but not as much as the picture’s she’s holding ︎
![]()
I really like the pictures of her dancing, but not as much as the picture’s she’s holding ︎
Abby was talking about how sometimes she’ll forget how the stuff she does might look from the outside. Which is to say, she doesn’t have a good idea of how much of a badass she is.
I can just imagine telling the child, when they’re born:
Here’s a picture of your mother dancing at your ultrasound,
and here’s the picture of her gutting a chicken two hours later.
I can just imagine telling the child, when they’re born:
Here’s a picture of your mother dancing at your ultrasound,
and here’s the picture of her gutting a chicken two hours later.
Reynolds was a good chicken. He was loud and he was mean to some of our hens but he also watched out for them and came running whenever they made a peep. He died well, and he lived well too. He was only ever himself, chickens always are.