The morning mist was a blanket. A translucent blanket that surrounded the entire farm, doubling the weight of hay left uncovered. Half of the morn’ was spent hauling it to a plot that would catch the most rays so that it wouldn’t spoil. The midday sun gave me chills. The sweat would bead down my face onto my damp clothes. My stomach growled. I didn’t know what starving meant back then. Next to the roaring fire, our shaded cottage filled with warmth. My clothes would dry as Lizzie poured me a bowl of hot stew. I took for granted seeing her face each day. I barely knew her. She was a stranger who shared my bed.
Dreaming of her face is a comfort in this city filled with strangers. The chills never stop. My clothes are forever wet and the dirt clings to me. My lungs fill with tobacco, steam and other elements produced by the masses. I used to be strong; I could lift a square of hay over my head. But I can feel my body disappearing in this repetitive world. In this land of opportunity, my savior is remembering the piece of land that I had worked; once upon a time. Coal is the blanket now. It blacks out everything.