Imbecile Child

The farmer looked at his son, knowing the boy had no future. He’d been starved for air at birth, leaving him slow-in-the-head.

It was the year 1892, modern times, with places one could leave an imbecile child. Family, town folk, preachers, and doctors all said to put the child away, but he couldn’t, such was his love for the boy.

“Don’t know what he’s yammering on about now,” he said to his wife.

“You know he has a strong imagination,” she said. “You recall how he spent months talking on and on about the bird that laid an egg on an island and it bloomed like the sunrise.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess it ain’t nothing then. Still, I wish I understood what it was about alabaster twins turning to dust. Sounds like a nightmare or something.”

“Go wash up,” she said, “Suppers nearly ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

The backdoor screen slapped shut as the boy came running in.

“What does certificate of vaccination identification mean, Momma?” he asked.

“It means you best go wash up,” she said. “It’s nearly time to eat.”

“Hope it’s fried chicken,” he said, racing to join his father at the washbasin, “I love fried chicken.”