Coming Home

He gazed out across the vast landscape in front of him. The checkered fields of alternating green, yellow and black created a patchwork pattern of the new double-pronged rows of corn shoots, fresh mowed timothy grass cut and turned on its flaxen side ready to be baled and the black cultivated soil of the resting fields, still straight and orderly in their rows. The sight of it made his heart clutch in the unbearable tightness of unanswered longing. Fifty years had passed since he last looked upon the shire of his youth.

Everything had changed and nothing had changed. The sky was still blue and sheep shaped clouds meandered in that vast cerulean field.The seasons for planting continued. The land, eternal nurturer of its denizens remained as he remembered it. The farm houses that once dotted here and there were no longer to be seen. In their stead was a titanic metal structure standing-or squatting- depending on the viewer’s perspective. Around the gray metal giant, many people walked here and there, going about their varied tasks much as ants would scurry to and from, in and out of their ant hill. He knew, as he observed the tiny shapes of the people, nearly a quarter of a mile away from where he stood, that they all wore the same gray shirts and black overalls. People’s asexual forms, like the ants, were workers and it didn’t matter what gender they were.

Though the building was modern, he saw no examples of modern agriculture. No tractors, no trucks, no heavy implements to till the land. Horses and wagons were moving slowly, methodically along the ribbons of gray dirt road that led from the titan barn to the fields. Each field had a road leading to it and all roads spoke out from the center hub of the building.

The weight of his backpack dug into his shoulders causing him to sling it off in order to rest his aching back. Lifting its canvas flap he pulled out a pair of cheap binoculars and used them to scan the many ant-like individuals below. His pale blue eyes spied her quickly. Her now gray hair strayed out in thin wisps from under her straw cap, showing her age, as did the slow and hunched posture of her body as it shuffled toward one of the wagons. With great effort she climbed up onto the flat bench directly behind the youthful driver holding the reins.The horses lurched forward and the large wooden wheels started to turn as they moved on. His heart clenched again- this time with the joy of at last knowing that she lived, she was still alive after so many seasons.

Though the man with the binoculars was old- older even than the woman- his body was erect and strong. His eyes, though hardened from squinting into the bright light of so many years, had the same brightness and clarity of his youth. His body’s wiry frame hardly filled out his weathered and faded clothes. His strength came from within, not from rest or nourishment or health, but from long years of waiting and hoping for this moment.

Fifty years ago they were young and very much in love. A small cottage was their shelter. Long hours working the fertile land was their occupation. Nothing changes, yet, everything changes. Fifty years ago they had been owners of the small cottage and 30 acres of farmland. A small barn sheltered their animals. A Field Marshall tractor, their prized possession, stood ready for its call to work, parked in the open entrance of the barn under the loft. Today, after the war and redistribution of wealth, the cottage and barn were gone. The tractor was replaced by human laborers with picks and hoes. They were told everyone owned the land, and no one owned the land in a threat of pain and loss for those who questioned its paradox; peace and sustenance for those who obeyed its dogma. Property became communal, people became worker ants. The individual ceased to exist though the people survived in their new form.

He lowered the binoculars and continued to observe the activity below his position in the high meadow. The sun was sinking low in the sky. He waited for the day’s work to stop. He waited for dark.

His mind went back to a time when he and she were walking in this high field in Spring. Wildflowers blazed in their short-lived display of finery and guise to attract the pollinators. From this place of beauty, they shared a picnic. The woman wore a printed sundress. Her dress was a myriad of flowers and colors, matching the field they sat in. He wore his blue denim overalls and an engineer's cap pulled low over his fair eyes.On a blanket she had laid out scones with small jars of lemon curd and clotted cream to generously top them. A pot of tea, a bottle of milk and two mugs were nearby, ready for her to serve and sweeten it with their own hive’s wild flower honey. After eating their picnic they made love and then fell asleep in the warm sunshine.

As he now sat alone in the grass, waiting, he put the binoculars back in his pack and got out a metal canteen half full of water. He took a sip, swallowed and then took another; swishing the cool liquid around his dry mouth before he swallowed again.

Everything was the same in the meadow as he waited and remembered. Everything was different as he looked down upon the beastly building as it glowed golden like a giant beetle in the setting sun. As the sky darkened, it slowly began to morph into a dark and ominous shadow that scarred the land and the life he had known so long ago.

He sat quietly waiting, hoping and planning his return to her loving embrace. Withered by the years as she was, she was still his hope and plan that everything was the same between them.

Using the black of night to hide his stealthy return, the earth he sat upon, still warm from the sun’s rays, welcomed him home in its fertile embrace.