Cabbage Moths

When you are up to your ankles in pig pen softened mud and still sinking, you have learned not to chase the cabbage moths the hard way. Your mint green glitter jelly sandals are completely submerged. 

“Help!” 

Somebody should be nearby. Where is Grandma? It’s been a while since you wandered away from her. She’s hard of hearing, anyway, so it would be hard for her to hear your cries for help. Where are your sisters? They are probably in the little playhouse just across the line of walnut trees. Mom is long gone. She dropped you off hours ago. Nobody can hear you. You are completely alone. 

You have sunk to the middle of your calves. The browning grass grows five feet away from where you stand. That is almost a foot more than the length of your body. You cannot reach over to the ledge with your pudgy arms. 

“Help! Help!” 

Panic takes over as your rapidly beating heart throttles your chest. The song of the birds and the cries of the goats in the distance are muffled as a ringing fills your ears. 

Everything is too useless or too far away. Grandpa tore the fences down. The rusty water pump is all the way up the hill next to the cellar door. The barn door is down the gravel driveway, left open and swinging in the early summer breeze as if it were making fun of you. 

The sinking has progressed to just below your scab-adorned knees. Why do you always end up like this? 

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!” 

You push out your scream so hard it vibrates in your lungs and burns your throat. It disturbs the cabbage moths that had settled around you in the interim. They are like off-white rose petals fluttering heavenward. They fade from your vision as they ascend higher and higher. You descend lower and lower. 

You have sunk down to your butt. 

Try to remember what you know about death. Good people go to Heaven. Bad people go to Hell. But this is Hell! Have you been good? Why do you even care so much now that you are going to die? A bad person would only worry about being bad when they were going to die. You are waist-deep now. 

The screams that pump through your body are reflexive but inaudible to you. It makes you wonder if you’re making any sound at all. 

The smell is overwhelming. It makes you convulse with dry heaves. You do not want to breathe in through your nose, but you think you can taste it when you breathe in through your mouth. 

You are chest-deep now. 

Dear God, you pray. Please do not let me die, and please don’t let any poop get into my mouth.

If you were a grown-up, you would have figured out what to do. If you were a grown-up, you wouldn’t have chased the cabbage moths in the first place. You will never get to be a grown-up. 

You are neck deep, your chin just barely touching the slop. You stay neck deep. Your feet have reached the bottom, you think. You will not die, but you are still chin-deep in pig poop. You watch the cabbage moths fly above you.