My father inherited a poor patch of land from his father. It was all he and mother had in the world, besides seven daughters. He would go out before dawn and come back at nightfall hunched over, with a stiff hummock in his gait. He used to put me on his knee and teach me how to ride the four winds.
“Sit tightly, my beauty,” he would whisper, before the wild pitch began.
The land yielded little. It yielded less when storms came out of season, or when they did not come at all. In winter, my mother boiled a few potatoes every day over the fire — till the winter of my seventh year, when we came to end of our potatoes and our fuel . . . .
coming 2021 from Propertius Press, an old fairy tale retold