I only know a couple of things. First – most people talk more than I do. Pa kept saying I should talk more. I just never could think of anything to say. Like when the barn burned down. I tried to put it out. All I had was a bucket, and I kept carrying water from the house. From the well, actually. The well was alongside the house.

Yeah, I know there was a creek. I could have got water there, but the fire was so darn pretty I just kept goin’ to the well where I could look over my shoulder and see the fire burn as I got water to put it out. The flames were yellow and orange and wispy-like, swirlin’ up into the sky like a girl’s dress as she’s dancing the dirty boogie.

I knew the water would never put it out. Isn’t that the thing? You do stuff because it’s the thing you’re supposed to do even though you know it won’t do any good – like goin’ to school, like getting a job, getting married. I mean what’s the point.

And then Ma and Pa came back from town in the old Ford, screamin’ their lungs out as I stood on the porch with my empty bucket, the sun goin’ down, the wind blowin’ through the holler, and me cryin’ my eyes out because the barn was burned down to the ground and now there wouldn’t be no more fire.

Pa was so mad he couldn’t talk. Ma could, though. She said, “You started that there fire, didn’t you?”

Now I loved Ma, but I hated her questions. I was glum.

“Where’s your schoolbooks, Johnny?” she asked.

We stood lookin’ at the embers glow as evening set in, the holler filling up with smoke, the heat reaching us from across the road. Some questions were best left unanswered, but I would never miss those darn books.

The second thing I know is that people tend to forget stuff. This whole thing will blow over.