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⁰⁴ LANG SYNE
❝ Something smells rotten, and it's starting to spread. ❞
―Ethel Cain, Inbred
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IN RURAL LITHONIA WERE THE FIELDS OF THEIR RANCH.
Whiteboard, two-story; many bedrooms, three bathrooms. Meadows held the cows and horses. Acres of sweet fruit trees were climbed by the ragged shoes of a fifteen-year-old Silas. Emma planted her flowers around the fences ― gardenia and roses to cover the flaws. Casey ran wild to abuse the chickens. Landon was silent. He read books in the attic where the old church of Irma's relatives kept boxes of the Bible.
Of a cottage of vintage air, a family had made an abode of hope. It was Arthur's heritage, and his dream had been to fill every room in the house. Emma had shed tears and sweat for the love of her life four times; she did not think the fifth time a burden.
Harlene was five.
Summertime in silvan Georgia, she sat nestled under her mother's arm on the porch. Her little fingers cupped the swollen belly of her mother. She could feel the kicks of something vigorous under Emma's skin, desperate to come alive and out. He was yet nameless, having the woman hoping he would be born late enough for Arthur to return from service. But Emma would smile at her only daughter, the light of their home. A house of love and memories protected them. They knew he'd return. And so Harlene would smile back. Her mother was glamorous; she wouldn't know what else to do but blush into the woman's chest.
Then she'd wonder, what will his name be?
Emma wanted Arthur to decide with her, but the parents had had their chances, and so had the grandparents. Old fashioned and biblical names had been handed. Her mother asked Harlene for a change. The little girl had mused about it. Ronald, she had yelled. It is the name of my favorite character in The Philosopher's Stone!
Emma had tangled her digits inside her daughter's hair affectionately. She had loved the idea; therefore, Harlene had toothlessly grinned and curled over the round stomach, hugging it with high faith. That day of summer and iced tea... Irma and Dale were reprimanding the boys in the background. And soon, a tune had begun humming over Harlene. Her mother's touch, her unborn brother, and that song ― the breeze had carried Emma's voice and etched every word into Harlene's heart. She had believed this to be the heaven Irma prayed for.
