Memoir of the Milk Jug

by S.V. Farnsworth

            Somewhere in the daydream that encompasses the ages of three and four, I remember a sunny day, not too hot and not too cold. I got thirsty and went inside to ask for a glass of milk, but my mom said we didn’t have any. I asked if we could buy some, but she said we didn’t have enough gas in the car. I knew what that meant, but being resourceful I thought I could fix the problem.

            I asked for the empty milk jug and went out into the yard. I mixed water and dirt together until it looked like gas. I unscrewed the cap and poured it into the tank. I put the cap back on and closed the flap, but the drizzle of sand down the side of the car made me think something wasn’t right.

Looking at the jug in my hand, I remembered when I’d added water to the last of the milk in order to make more. Mom had been mad and explained that I hadn’t really made more milk, but ruined what we had left. Peering down into the jug at the dregs of dirt in the bottom, I became quite certain that I was in trouble.

I didn’t want to be around to see how angry mom got over this, so I hid the jug and went inside. I asked for a paper sack, went to my room to pack some clothes, took my baby brother by the hand and marched back through the kitchen to the outside.

            We didn’t stop in the yard, or the drive, or the road, but turned left down the grassy roadside. We headed for the nearest house, the only other house in sight. Soon mom called for us, but we didn’t answer. Before long our rust colored bug pulled up to the end of the driveway and I quickly pulled my brother down into the tall grass. We watched mom drive by and as soon as she disappeared, we continued on.

At last we got to the house down the road. When we knocked on the door a kindly woman answered and let us in. We sat on her couch, and she gave us milk and cookies while she called our mother. When mom came I just knew I’d be spanked, but instead she hugged and hugged us. She thanked the woman and we three walked home. The car was broken.

by S.V. Farnsworth

I write upon the dead trunks of trees, paper dry and ink wet.

Wanna be.

Press me softly lest I fail to tell the tale of a rising sea and a windy Gail.

       Trite.

Preferring failure, I digress; becoming loathe to put forth a single word.

       Quitter.

I write nothingness; hiding in the branches of my mind.

     Never was.

I am surrounded by leaves, the litter of trees, my work reduced to shreds.

         Waste.

Forests hewn and ground to bits, I consume them by my hand.

    Drain.

Forcefully tattooing my grief and love upon nature’s page, I mar myself.

        Fool.

My will is not still. My hope flickers in the breeze.

         Failure.

Undisciplined,

            the volumes of my mind’s fruit are consumed, leaving nothing.