The Meadow 135 his gaze. Every one of their tulips were missing. No, not missing. Their petals were gone. What once was a wide strip of three rows of tulips of various yellows, oranges, and reds, there was now the same strip of green vibrant stalks. The closest stalk seemed to wobble in the breeze. It was rather romantic, or nice, that the stalks were now the thing to look at, instead of the actual flowers. They were going to be pissed. “You did this?” I whispered. It felt cold outside, even with the sun on our backs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just thought it was interesting.” The closest stalk oozed some kind of clear fluid. It was its blood or tears. I couldn’t decide which. They were all wet, fresh from the cut, from the shears. “Where are the heads? The tops?” “I don’t know.” He put an arm around my shoulder and directed me back inside. “Let’s enjoy some cartoons.” It didn’t take long. Mom woke, started fixing eggs and bacon and pancakes. Dad shuffled from their bedroom, his hand groping for coffee, blinking his eyes hard against the sun, which was now fully filtering through the front window. He grunted at the TV, and walked out into the front yard, presumably to see if we were struck again. He was a heavy sleeper. I remember when I used to get scared, and waking up from bad dreams, I would run to their bed, and Mom would roll Dad out of the way; it felt like I was in an animated, warm valley—except of coyote calls, it was the huffing of Dad’s breathing mixed with Mom’s resounding snores. I always fell asleep. We sat at the kitchen table, our feet tapping away the morning. Dad talked about what he had to do for work tomorrow, the places he had to go to get this or that for the plant, and Mom listened, probably thinking about what to make me for lunch tomorrow. Right now, I thought chicken nuggets. Or maybe mac
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