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Librería Kolima (Madrid)
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The air is crisp and holds that early evening glow that only lasts for a moment before it all rapidly grows dark. Each blade of grass motions towards me as the wind runs across its surface. It’s unusually green for this time of fall, but winter is lying in wait. I step off the porch and my bare toes hug the grass until I’m shivering. Across the lawn is my father’s tractor. Hay is piled in the back. It’s waiting to be revved up and taken down the road to the old barn, but I doubt it would still run. We used it at our wedding; we strung cans off the back of the flatbed and sat on the hay waving as my dad drove us off to our new home. The tractor hasn’t moved since then.I climb up in its perch and look down the gravel drive. If I went far enough I would hit the highway. Maybe the local news would pick up my story: Crazy lady runs away riding ancient tractor: a story of dissatisfaction and the longest mile that tractor will ever see.
