junkyardbutterfly

[junkyardbutterfly]

That Old Sycamore

Mama always told me I'd be something unique when I grew up, I always told her I wanted to be a professional creek explorer. Bubba loved the creek, we'd make our own pathways and along the way, named a few familiar spots to make sure we was gettin' home the right way. Bubba always told me, "Don't you ever go out there alone, it ain't safe for people like us." I never understood what he meant by that, but I was too scared to find out. Daddy wasn't around much, I've only seen pictures of him around the house, one in a soldier's outfit, another one with Mama and a bunch of other people, they looked happy as he hugged her real tight. I'd always see him sitting under the old Sycamore tree out by the chicken coop but he'd go away when I'd try to get closer. I told Mama but she said he was busy and always had something to do. I never really got close enough to know it was him, but he looked like Daddy. Once, I tried to sneak up on him, to surprise him, but it was like no one was ever there. So I asked Bubba one day when we was walkin' through the creek, he told me Daddy died, "fighting for what was right." I was quiet the whole way back home, I couldn't be mad at Mama, she was only trying to protect me from those people, half of me thinks she didn't wanna believe he was gone. As Bubba got older, we stopped going to the creek as much, he was always out runnin' around real late and left me at home to make sure Mama didn't wake up before he got back. When he did get home, I'd always hear hushed laughs from girls and other stuff I couldn't make out. I rarely saw him till morning but I always knew he was back as soon as I heard those Mercury engines rev up three times in our dirt driveway, after that, I could go to sleep for the night. Mama never caught him though, never caught the girls' coming in and out at midnight or how he'd come in bloody from fights, his long, coarse black hair disheveled with a busted lip and bruised knuckles. By the time I turned twelve, Bubba was always in and out of jail, he came home with bigger busted lips but no bruised knuckles. Mama always cried herself to sleep, but I still stayed up to make sure he was gettin' home safe. This night was different, Bubba was home by 10 O'clock, he came through the front door and sat down next to me on our dingy leather couch, we laughed and talked for hours! It felt like my Bubba was back, sweet ole' Bubba who taught me how to catch fish and played with water moccasins, the Bubba who protected the house because Daddy couldn't. I was glad to see him smile like he used to. That night, I asked if he could sleep in my room and sing old songs with me. As we tried to squeeze into my tiny bed to the best of our ability, he sang something I'd never heard, a song in Mama's tongue. He looked like Mama, he looked just like her. The morning was silent, Mama was usually awake by now, but it wasn't unusual for her to take a day break. I saw hurried footsteps from under my door, when I heard the door slam I finally looked out my window, Bubba was dressed in clothes meant for the creek, I jumped up out of bed and ran to the door so I could go too! He didn't make it too far by the time I came out, I asked him if he was going to the creek, he kept walking like he didn't hear me, when I finally caught up, I asked again, he told me he'd take me next time, I started to argue, but his eyes told me to run back in the house. Bubba never took me back to the creek, he never came back home. Mama was real sad, she always said he was just like Daddy, in life and in death. Now, when I look out to that old Sycamore tree, I see Daddy and Bubba, they look joyful, sometimes they'll be out there talkin' for hours, they never see me, but I always see them. Mama was right about a lot of things, Mama always said I'd be something unique when I grew up, well Mama, I hope I've made you proud.