a boy and a cow

…the confusion between hunger and sorrow…

John Ivanovich Malloff – 1940

Osatka Village, Grand Forks, BC

Vanya squatted under the wooden planks of the front porch, taking up residence on the compact dirt, confused by the sorrow above. His index traced Big Red in the ground under his feet. He gave him a fiery mane but no jockey. Nothing ran as fast as Big Red. Vanya was hiding his hunger from his mother. She had withdrawn from life, blinded with grief, her kitchen fell dark. Every time her tears ebbed and her eyes settled upon Vanya the heavy sobbing would return. His loneliness stumbled into the shame of malnourishment.

            Styopa[1] was somewhere, worlds away by the measure of boys. Maybe he was at the Stooshnoff village doing chores.  Papa was lost in the mountains to the north, falling trees for the wages to buy seedlings. Vanya needed something to occupy him, some responsibility to engage. He peaked out at the valley. 

            Morning had lifted itself over the barn doors. Sadness governed above the porch, confusion crouched below. Blades squeezed through the planks, drawing bars across his apple. It was an acorn of a Spartan, hard and green, forbidden to ripen, sour before its time. It was all he had. Rubbing it on his shirt, to shine up his expectations, Vanya knew the pains in his stomach would not be lifted. They growled to warn him of the consequences, but his mouth watered regardless. His face grimaced, too tart to chew, he swallowed the first bite quickly. Upstairs his mother’s crying turned to God, pleading for a reversal or an explanation. None of it would bring back her newborn son.

            The sun teased at him, dancing down the tall grasses. The dew held tight as it glistened, caught between the wanted spaces of evaporation and absorption. Vanya crawled out of his zebra swept hide-a-way, wiping the dirt from his knees, he took another bite of the apple. Still sour, still hard, his stomach ached worse. He tossed his loss to the worms.

            He felt guilty for slinking away from the despair indoors, but he sought companionship or at least modest distraction. As he walked his knuckles against the barn wall, a honeysuckle smiled at him, proposing a sweet change from the taste in his mouth. The flavour was a sparse reprieve, fleeting and mild. Crickets jumped from violin to violin, drawing a blanket of sound above the grassy waves. Bees left scents of honey humming across the strings of their hidden orchestra.

            The conductor called on Busharika, her neck boxing the bell like a lover’s voice. Here was Vanya’s companion. He envied her, imagining how sweet the grasses tasted, imagining how it might be to put one’s head down and eat. To fully eat, to eat until the job was done. To eat until the shoots of sweet rebirth tickle your nose. Busharika kicked a few steps forward, all the while ripping, chewing, mashing the grass with a natural industriousness. The smile of a toddler, obvious and free met the smile of a calf, hidden but trusting. Vanya placed his palm on the space between her neck and shoulder. He leaned into a half-accomplished hug, paying his morning salutations. Sometimes he would jump up to try and straddle Busharika, but she was no Big Red. Freedom was too fast for the two of them to chase.  

            Vanya remembered watching his dad milk a heifer, but he was too young to know what to do. There was a bucket he could use. Maybe it was in the shed against the wall. Maybe some milk would relieve his mama of her grief. He hatched a plan, as kids do, absent a few crucial steps. He squeezed between the play in the shed doors. No need for grown up routines. The dark scared him, but not enough to push him back out.

            Dust hung neutrally buoyant, bringing the light to life. The open interior expanded as he adjusted his caution. Fir planks, saw horses and wire spools haunted the corners. He remembered the bucket. Vanya began to feel his way, wading into the shadows, Busharika was waiting. He shuffled along a shank of darkness, towards the far end of the shed. His left foot scored, kicking the bucket with his toe. He felt for the handle and lifted it in his hand.

            Returning to the door was no good, it brought defeat, as the bucket was too wide to slip through and he was too small to lift the plank latch. Frustration fed his fears, he abandoned the bucket and scraped back through to emerge under the great blue sky. Busharika’s bell knocked again, his gentle companionship wasn't far away. She was five months old, almost two years from giving milk. Vanya was three and a half, a few years from such chores. Neither knew how their routine would blossom in the decade to come.

[1] Russian short form for Steve.