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I am the being that lives in your field. Yes, you. The two humans who live in this house. I know that you can’t hear me, but that won’t stop me from talking. I need to speak as well, even if it comes off in the form of wind blowing through your crops and in your hair. I am the one who eats the mice and makes noises at night to keep you inside–away from the terrible things that you don’t want to see. That’s besides the point. This is supposed to be about you.
You are the tall one and the short one. I believe that the tall one is called “Patton,” and the short is called “Logan,” but it is easier for me to call you Tall and Short. Human names do not come to me easily. You have lived in this house for only a few years, but you are by far the best that have in centuries. Especially in comparison to the last people who lived here. They were just… horrible. You, on the other hand, are kind and gentle. You keep to your work, and in your free time, you sing odd, human love songs together or read your books. I find that very admirable. No fighting. No anger.
You don’t leave the farm very often–maybe once a week. Most of your time is spent tending to crops, but when you do leave, the farm is very empty and quiet. It lacks the life that you bring to it. Especially when the tall one leaves. There isn’t any of your warm singing and dancing, and the air lacks that distinct smell of baked goods and happiness. Yes, you’d probably be surprised to know that emotions are very fragrant, but your human noses aren’t sensitive enough to smell them. I find that rather tragic.
It’s even less frequent when you bring someone to the farm. I rather like the loud one. “Roman,” I believe. He lights up the air whenever he’s around like the light spirits who dance in the field during warm summer nights. His voice is neither soft like the tall one, nor smooth like the short one. It rolls like water against river rocks. The air smells faintly like cinnamon when he’s near.
The other one–the fancy one–on the other hand, wasn’t… He wasn’t really my favorite at first. Every lie that he told colored the air a sickening yellow color, and I could tell that he was hurting you. I know now that he hadn’t wanted to hurt you, but every time that he stepped onto the property, the ichor in my veins turned to ice. I’ll tolerate him now. I promise that I’ll stop putting the mice skeletons in his car… for the most part. Maybe. If it makes you happy…
I really do want you happy. I love the nights when the sky is clear, and so many stars are visible in the sky because you lay in the bed of the short one’s truck and stargaze for hours. I make sure to keep the malevolent spirits at bay so that you can have some peace. While those are my favorite nights, they are also nights that often end in sorrow. The tall one tells stories about the stars that his ancestors passed down through the generation, and he laments the how the white settlers kicked his tribe out of the very land that they now owned. I remember that time. I remember the screams and the crying and the horror. I remember all of it. The tall one always talks about how he wishes that things could go back to before, when the land wasn’t something that you owned, and native cultures weren’t cut down to nothing. The short one always listens intently as he braid’s the tall one’s long hair. When the short one is upset, the air tastes bitter and cold. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s never long after the tall one is upset that the short one is as well. Those nights, you go to bed and cuddle for a long while before falling asleep. Both of you wish that things could be different, but you are still happy in the fact that you are together.
I’m glad that you are here. I’m glad that you don’t keep cats that kill all of the mice that I need to survive, and I’m glad that you don’t overwork the land. I’m glad that you’re kind and generous and intuitive. I’m glad that, even though you don’t really know that I’m out here, you act in my best interest. I’m glad that you exist. You make me happy. You’re my… “family.”
Here’s to many more years of living on this land.