Dirt

He lies awake in the morning under a tent he made with the top sheet, listening to the early morning noises.

His father sings while he dresses and hums while he brushes his teeth. The bathroom door creaks open and Sunshine drops the sheet. He curls his toes around the thin material and listens to his father. His father does this every morning - swishes the bathroom door back and forth and says, "I need to fix that creak." But it's forgotten as the day passes, and maybe isn't as noticeable in the afternoon when everyone is up and running and stomping through the house. Early morning noises are crisp and clean, like the line-dried sheet he once again balances on his feet.

Water runs into the sink after his father leaves. Coffee cups clink and silverware tins. His mother isn't quiet like his father. She bangs cabinet doors, pours dog food into the pets' bowl instead of scooping it up like his father does. She brushes her teeth, and never mentions the creak in the door when she leaves the bathroom.

Her feet sound like a basketball being dribbled down a hardwood court when she enters his room. She climbs under the covers and pulls the sheet over their heads before pushing a carob ginseng kiss onto his cheek. They lie under the covers, plucking blackberries out of the little clay bowls his mother bought at an art festival. Juice runs down his finger, and he wipes it on the bed sheet. His mother laughs, rolls over onto her belly, squishes a berry, and draws a sun on the white cotton sheet.

They lay there for a while, drawing pictures on the sheet, until they hear his brother climb off his parents' bed. His mother flings off the sheet, jumps from the bed, and calls for the baby, "Acorn!" She calls the baby Acorn because he's always popping up under foot, but she says that means he will be strong someday.

His mother is full of sayings like that; happy fairies leave wet kisses on the grass at night, and when the maple leaves turn over and show their petticoats, it's going to rain. He doesn't know if she is pulling his leg, or if she is wise, but the grass is always wet in the morning and he can't think of a time when it didn't rain after the leaves turned.

She puts water into a kettle for their oatmeal and places it on the old stove. It doesn't fire by itself anymore so she lights a match and holds it under the kettle. Stove lit, she uses the match to light the candle on the kitchen counter. She does this every morning so his father will stay safe while he's away.

They sit at the table and make faces at each other while they wait for the kettle to whistle. Acorn makes several faces but his favorite one is picking his nose. Mama makes him wash his hands - with soap.

After they eat, they go outside to water the garden. Sometimes, when the sun decides to get warm a bit earlier than usual, Mama holds the water hose up in the air and lets Sunshine and Acorn run under it. The water weighs down Acorn's curls until they stretch long and straight to his waist. Grammy thinks Acorn's hair is too long even when it's all curled up so Mama never does this when Grammy is over.

They sit on the front porch steps after the garden is watered and watch the trucks pass by. Mama pulls her skirt up to her thighs and stretches out her legs. Sunshine glints at her through the sun. The sun turns her hair red and draws out freckles that only dot the right side of her forehead. Acorn sits between her legs, peeling the bark off a stick. Mama wraps his wet hair around her finger and blows on it, setting his curls.

Acorn lets out a yelp and holds up his finger. A splinter. The screen door slams behind Sunshine as he runs into the house to get the jar of drawing salve. He pulls himself onto the counter and stands on his knees. Underneath the herbs hanging upside down in the window, and right next to the jar where tiny salad seeds are sprouting, he finds the pint-size jar of white comfrey salve. He opens the lid and the bitter scent reminds him of autumn, and Mama standing at the stove, stirring melting beeswax in the double boiler.

Mama smears the salve on Acorn's splinter and wraps it with cheesecloth. Sunshine sits next to his brother on the porch swing while Mama makes them all a drink. He keeps his arm around his brother's shoulder, waiting for Acorn's sniffles to stop.

Sometimes he thinks Acorn smells like Mama, like nothing. He presses his nose into Acorn's curls and takes a deep sniff, then he draws a piece of his own straight white hair up to his nose and breathes in.

Daddy says they all smell like dirt and tea tree oil. Every night when he comes home from work, he picks them up and tosses them into the air, incensing the house. "My dirty little hippies," he laughs.

Mama brings them peppermint tea in little earth-toned mugs she bought at an art festival. She presses her bare toes against the concrete and starts the swing. A breeze comes by and picks up their scent. It drifts over the garden and settles into the dirt.