Fresh Milk and Eggs

Early in the morning, before the sun rises, a farmer steps outside and looks at the stars.

With a steaming cup of black coffee in his hand, he pulls out his phone to check the weather for the day. The light of the phone almost hurts his eyes in the early morning darkness. With a wince and a grunt, he quickly gets what he needs and puts his cracked phone back in the pocket of his wispy, pale blue jeans. He didn't want the phone; he liked watching early morning reruns of the Weather Channel before his old box television broke. His wife convinced him to get the phone, primarily to keep up with their grandkids. They never talk, but not for lack of wanting. He doesn't want to be a bother, and they'll call if they want to talk.

The weather should be good enough for market and to knock out some field work later in the afternoon. The animals will need to be taken care of regardless. With a soft huff in the silent darkness, the farmer begins his morning.

His first stop every morning is to greet the chickens. Soft clucks escape from the gaps in the wooden coop when the chickens hear footsteps cut through the silence. He wanted to buy the chickens full grown, but his wife said she wanted to raise them from chicks. Now instead of nameless chickens, he has Cherry, Cluck, and Shelly. They had more at first, but with time he was left with three. He fills their water, puts food in their empty feeder, and grabs the fresh eggs before heading out.

Next he stops to see two sleepy cows and a calf in the pasture. The two cows have been at the farm for years, but the calf is about six months old. It was six months ago he and his wife helped the calf into the world. Their grandchildren were there, along with their daughter-in-law. Their son was at work that weekend, working on something they didn't understand. His job is complicated. As the farmer takes the cows to the barn, the calf comes running behind. The farmer ties the cows to his post and grabs his pail and stool. He gathers the milk to take to market as the calf lays at her mother's feet.

Light glares through the windshield of a dusty beet-red truck from the '70s as the sun begins to rise. In the rear view mirror he can see the wrinkles around the top half of his face and his gray eyebrows. In the past when he went to market, he knew his wife would be at home piddling around the house and keeping the farm bright. Now today everything feels a little more monotone. The farmer pulls up to the market, unloads his table and produce, sits down, and waits for the day at the market to begin. On his table sit six eggs and two pints of milk. He only comes to market every other day, or at least when he compiles enough produce to make the trip. A few years ago he'd go to market every day with twelve eggs and six pints of milk. His farm is paid off, and he has everything he needs. He mostly goes these days to make sure the produce his farm produces doesn't go to waste. The other farmers in the area don't go to market anymore. They've either sold their livestock and retired completely, moved away, or have simply passed on.

A familiar, but aged, face walks up to the farmer.
"Hey, John!" the man says with a bounce in his voice. "Glad to see you here today."
His name is Arthur. He comes to market every couple of days to try to catch John. The farmer chuckles, but it dies quickly.
"Here to clean me out again, Arthur?"
"Oh, you know it. Best produce in town. I'll take the bunch."
The farmer nods, then slowly starts to lean under the table, grunting, trying to get a wooden basket.
"Oh, don't bother, John. I still have the one you gave me last time. Let me help you."
John slowly tries to make his way back up when Arthur walks around the table to give him a hand back into his chair.
"Hey, I wanted to ask."
John looks up, with hesitance on his face.
"How're you holdin' up? I hate to bring it up, and the only reason I do is because, you know, I'm willing to help around the farm. I know it can't be easy alone."
John, keeping composure, says, "It's okay. The load is light, and you know I don't have many animals anymore. I'll get by. Just make sure you keep showing up to take the produce off my hands."
Arthur chuckles. "Alright, I hear ya, John. Hey, you know I'd always be glad to take the rest of the animals off your hands. Cut out the middleman, and make some work easier for you. I could even be sure to get you the food you need for free."
John winces at the thought. "Oh, Arthur, you know, I appreciate it, but you know it's what I do. It's okay."
Arthur nods. "Take care, John."
John nods back. The farmer packs up his table, loads up his boxes, and heads back to the farm.

Through the afternoon, the farmer tends to his animals, takes care of the few crops he has left, and turns in before the heat gets too much. His tan, leathery skin has turned pale through the years due to not being as able to bear the heat. It's been about four months since someone made him sweet tea or lemonade to help with the heat of the day. He didn't realize the little things he'd miss. John pours himself the same glass of ice water he's had every day since Kathy passed away.

In the golden hour of the day, John makes his pilgrimage to the top of Kathy's hill with a fresh batch of hand-picked flowers and Kathy's favorite snack, a buttered piece of bread with cinnamon and a cold bottle of fresh milk. John sits in front of a simple wooden cross with Kathy's name and dates carved into the planks. John sits, sets out Kathy's plate, pours her a glass of milk, and sets her flowers at the foot of the cross. John updates Kathy on his day, on the animals, on Arthur's offer, and how he'd never in a million years part with her animals. As the sun begins to set in earnest, he collects her plate, tells her how much he loves her and misses her, leaves the flowers, and makes his way home.

After taking care of the dishes, John walks out to the pasture. He lays with the calf, and together they look at the stars.