I know which one is always staring at me now. I finally recognize her. It’s Field’s mom; the skittish girl who last year dropped a single jet black lamb way out in the pasture. He was so large and healthy that we could barely get them up to the barn, they were dancing around, his long black tail wagging. A pure white mom and an all black lamb, stranger things have happened. Somehow they have the exact same face.
She has a white dorset face, but a narrow one, like the suffolks. The way her fluffy ears perk forward give her a childish look, but you know if you take one step towards her she will run. That wide-eye stare, watching your every move.
John said the ones that pay attention to you are worth keeping. He was talking about this beautiful big brown cow, who was staring at us, in our brown carhartt suits and standing in their muck, she kept an eye on us, and she’d been watching him since she was a calf. He said that means they’re quality, that the ones that’ll pay that much attention to you will raise a good herd.
None of us can remember what he said, what the staring means.
Her perky crooked head, sideways eyes, gazing forward.
How does anyone write a memoir? How does anyone remember their lives?