Monday, June 3, 2013

milk


My eyes look suspiciously at the creamer in our work fridge. I miss the thickness of the unpasteurized milk on the island.

I would have fed Claire and her calf that morning after Lauds, only once finding a garden snake in the fresh hay. I would have fed the Highlands after the dairy cows, giving them occasional pieces of sliced bread as a treat. They would forget their pride in those moments and come galloping towards the plastic bag I shook at them. They would be one of the last things I would see from my window as the sun descended over the 300 acre farm, basking in the golden glow and munching on fresh grass.

Claire's milk would be earthy and sweet--like the food I had fed her hours before. It would be delivered in the form of a small, denim clad nun at around 9pm every few days. It would pair well with Monster cookies, snickerdoodles and cereal.


Her milk would be a marvel. It would come to my glass because of delicate collaboration--man and beast--woman and caramel colored dairy cow. Watching Mother Therese or Mother Dilecta wring out milk from Claire's udders would be sacred. I would fear disrupting the magic with my wide, unblinking eyes.

Claire's milk would have left it's line on my upper lip most mornings and evenings. I would be like a child, wiping my mouth on my dirty work sleeve.

There we would be, Claire and I, sustaining one another.

Man and beast--spunky kid and gentle cow--we sustain one another.