Stripping Tobacco
The barn light
catches the dance
of amber dust
in the cold air
and casts long shadows
of Geneva and Clifton.
There are others,
but I only remember them.
Our silence is shared,
the way work is shared
when hands know what to do.
Leaves move through their fingers,
practiced and sure.
Through mine—
slower,
uncertain,
learning.
We strip them
clean,
sorting
pile from pile.
The air is dry and sweet,
thick enough
to tighten my throat
and settle in my clothes.
A radio in the corner.
Two Sparrows in a Hurricane
drifts through dust.
Then a Vince Gill song—
heard,
and left alone.
Her hands are fast,
controlled and rough.
He stands close.
Their eyes move
only between the leaves.
This will be Christmas money.
Nothing is said.
Nothing needs to be.
The night deepens and thins,
hours lengthen
and songs end.
When I think of stripping tobacco,
I do not think of words.
I think of standing,
hands moving,
dust floating,
my grandparents—
their quiet,
the hours,
the work,
and the way we stood together.
*
Jason Roberts is a social worker and therapist from Kentucky. He grew up on his grandfather’s farm, where the land became the center of his imagination. His work explores memory and the rural spaces that shaped his attention.
