(CREATIVE NONFICTION)
THREE KNOCKS
KELLY TATE
THREE KNOCKS
KELLY TATE
meditations on a moment of peace during a pandemic
I sat, cross-legged, at the top of my son's play fort, watching my husband mow, each pass of the mower giving order and straight lines to the wildness. I watched and watched, my eyes riding the red machine. The air smelled of wild onion, patches of which sprouted in thin, bent clumps, now sliced low.
My son knocked on the wood from the lower part of the fort. One knock means I’m coming up. Three means how are you. His face appeared, ever so bronzed from three merciful days of sun.
“Mommy, I knocked once. I’m coming up.”
“Oh good. I couldn’t tell how many knocks because the mower is so noisy.”
“One knock.”
Then he knocked three times on the wood platform next to me.
“I’m good, buddy,” I said. “How about you?”
“Good!” He's good. He had cheese and crackers and fruit, and heart-pounding play. He's good.
The clouds rippled in fancy waves and one side of the sky was purpling. We would go inside soon to have black bean soup that I’m tired of and cookies that I’m rationing. We would leave the screen door open, the rain washing everything clean. We would take some breaths first, my husband chugging water and gazing up, my son talking to his stuffed otter and drawing lines with his fingers in some dirt, then hopping on his swing, legs pumping hard and healthy. My husband and I would resist the heavy urge to read more news that night.
Give me this everyday beauty, forever please, I thought, greedy for more. I scanned the four lines of our property, our jewel box holding us in, staking our claim.
I sat, cross-legged, at the top of my son's play fort, watching my husband mow, each pass of the mower giving order and straight lines to the wildness. I watched and watched, my eyes riding the red machine. The air smelled of wild onion, patches of which sprouted in thin, bent clumps, now sliced low.
My son knocked on the wood from the lower part of the fort. One knock means I’m coming up. Three means how are you. His face appeared, ever so bronzed from three merciful days of sun.
“Mommy, I knocked once. I’m coming up.”
“Oh good. I couldn’t tell how many knocks because the mower is so noisy.”
“One knock.”
Then he knocked three times on the wood platform next to me.
“I’m good, buddy,” I said. “How about you?”
“Good!” He's good. He had cheese and crackers and fruit, and heart-pounding play. He's good.
The clouds rippled in fancy waves and one side of the sky was purpling. We would go inside soon to have black bean soup that I’m tired of and cookies that I’m rationing. We would leave the screen door open, the rain washing everything clean. We would take some breaths first, my husband chugging water and gazing up, my son talking to his stuffed otter and drawing lines with his fingers in some dirt, then hopping on his swing, legs pumping hard and healthy. My husband and I would resist the heavy urge to read more news that night.
Give me this everyday beauty, forever please, I thought, greedy for more. I scanned the four lines of our property, our jewel box holding us in, staking our claim.
Kelly Jeanne Tate is an Associate Teaching Professor at Missouri University of Science and Technology. She holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from the University of Arkansas’ Department of English where she also taught for four years and was awarded a Lily Peter Fellowship in Creative Writing. Additionally, she also holds a degree in English Language and Literature and French and Francophone Studies from the University of Michigan. Her writing has been published in Art Amiss and Cave Region Review, and she was a finalist in Many Mountain Moving's flash fiction contest.
