June

Sixth of June, 1816
I must confess that I have not written often of late.
And when I do,
it is a clemency I give myself, for the inkwell continues to freeze.
This has surely been as cold a weather as any man has known.
The calendar is false.
I say, is this not summer?
The east hills that overlook my
property, they have all been killed by frost.
The less fit plants and vegetation beg for mercy where there is none.
I have none.
I want none.
Worse still, an almost perpetual rain confines me principally to pace
the house, where I have taken to wearing
socks and coats and gloves too big for my fingers.
A steady fire has been required at all hours,
though the ice in the wood has made it difficult
to chop and heavy to carry, troublesome to drag.
Copious showers have been attended with lightening and thunder,
and the road has been barren of souls for
weeks, save for a post delivery last Tuesday.
Is this what we fought for?
I would have welcomed the company,
of course, but it was a parcel for Silas.
The rider asked to come inside,
to be spared from the crippling frost (
Go 'way, go 'way from my window), but I set him off (
Go 'way, go 'way from my door).
This matter was settled when that damned treaty was signed (
One year, three months, eighteen days).
I don't understand why I am being punished.
I hope the animals take him (
No, God don't live here no more).
Eleventh of June, 1816
There has never been so poor a harvest as this season, as now.
New England has become a festering graveyard.
It was better when the King ruled us.
Not this uneven wind.
Beans are froze.
Cucumbers, roots...
they are froze.
The well is froze.
The body is froze.
Outside, less determined,
disgraceful men and wives and
daughters stampede like slow, dying bulls.
Mewling.
Heading west.
Aren't we so full of Christian grace?
A persistent fog has reddened and dimmed the daylight.
It is as if the sun itself has become pocked and blackened with sores.
I am so very tired.
General Jacobs came to the house again (
Go 'way, go 'way from my window).
Third time in a day.
I don't understand his ignorance (
Go 'way, go 'way from my door).
I should lie in bed and ignore the knocking.
I should make him hope (
One year, three months, twenty-four days).
That will suit him.
Hope is for the weak (
No, God don't live here no more).
Thirteenth of June, 1816
As I write this, I am convinced that the sun has taken ill to defy me.
More convinced than I've ever been of anything.
Nature is rot.
Or are my superior wits deceived by a fiction gnawing in my belly?
Father would say so.
Now, I have taken to eating loathsome foods:
boiled grass and udders, if I can find them.
Men came from town yesterday (
Go 'way, go 'way from my window). "
Where is your brother?
Where is your brother, Silas? (
Go 'way, go 'way from my door)" I gave them nothing.
We stood on the porch for an hour's time.
A senseless eternity (
One year, three months, twenty-six days).
Across the field, a sickly creature limped about.
I so wished to reach for my rifle.
Make quick work and eat again (
No, God don't live here no more).
Eighteenth of June, 1816
Today, Reverend Brown came.
I wished to kill him to establish peace.
A dead bird was frozen in his hand.
I bet it was God's judgment.
I, too, have a rifle.
No, Reverend (
Go 'way, go 'way from my window),
I will not beg nor be humbled before a
God who would make of me an American (
Go 'way, go 'way from my door), yet hate me so freely for it.
Is he not a father who does not love his kin (
One year, three months, thirty-one days)?
Don't we all have our pacts to make?
I will not be punished by men (
No, God don't live here no more).
Twentieth of June, 1816
So, I fear, this is summer.
Lands are all but abandoned, gone like the Red Sticks.
Save for me.
What beautiful promise this is, Silas.
Silas.
Silas.
Silas.
I will not be punished, Silas.
Father, you want your son?
This land is mine.
Should have always been.
And if summer survives,
and I can find a measure of warmth, I will not bury his body.
Not my brother.
I will let the animals gnaw at his bones.
And I will send him to Hell in your Heaven, father.
You want punishment?
You've found it.
I wish you death,
Your only daughter