He's a skinny man, heels in, toes out, hobbles with a sort of slump. The dust kicks up under his loafers and creates plumes of amber and coffee that spiral in the light. The sun doesn't get hot like it used to, soaking his milky skin without the threat of a burn. Not that he’d be capable anyway.

I visit him every Sunday, sliding myself between the rows of corn as the plants nick my fingers. Today, I bring him two quarters and a steaming hot chamomile tea. He welcomes me with the same smile he’s always had. I do a little curtsey, mimicking his outstretched arms. We chat about the weather, the political environment, and so on as I lay out a blanket.

My grandma used to quilt, weaving complex stories out of thread. Her walls were covered with cloth pirates and fairies and oak trees with faces. It never dawned on me that she had been sewing fantasy in the purest form. The images would dance in the late summer breeze and slap the walls so no one could sleep.

The blanket before us now had been stepped on by crows. Twelve or thirteen form a circle around a stump, staring at it, frozen. It is the scarecrow’s favorite of my many quilts. His body shimmies with excitement as I sit down and sprawl like a cat, squinting up at him.

Today, he put on his best clothes; a tan sixties button-up and corduroy overalls. He outshines my orange dress pieced together from old curtains. I try not to let it bother me. I ask him about mountains and he replies with turtles. I ask about rivers and he says he's never seen one, so I decide we must go on a trip.

I grab his gloved hand and drag him through the fields. He is groaning and creaking but seems content, his gaze fixed up at the sky. 

I hear it in the distance, the creek, small after the summer swelter. We head to a patch of pebbles and he stands while I throw rocks. I hit him with one and he doesn't flinch. I hit him with another, harder this time, and a tuft of straw falls from his head. He says he wants to go home, but I hear father's dinner bell from across the farm. I have to go. 

Around the dinner table, I tell Father that mountains are turtles and he asks where I heard that from. My grandmother chuckles.

The rooster crows again and I fly out my window, sprinting to the creek. I don’t see the man but walk down the bank until I spot him in a pool of water. He’s floating there on his back and it is beautiful. The sun is on every part of him and he’s looking right at it. A crow lands on a branch nearby as I silently back away. I get the feeling he doesn't want to go home anymore.