They took Mum in the middle of a summer day. I was out in one of the faraway fields; she always told me not to stray to far from her side, but I didn’t listen because I was young and the young never listen when they ought. Everyone was out there anyway. Playing. Kicking up dirt and grass, gentle arms of sunlight reaching down across the sky to hold us all, each in turn, in the warmest of embraces. Birds gossiping all around. Days like that only come so often, you know. So I ran off when she wasn’t looking. She called me back but I didn’t listen. I shut her voice out of my head and ran and ran and ran. Ran until my legs burned and my blood turned to acid and my mouth went dry, leaving the sour taste of metal. Ran that far and then some more. Days like that only come so often, you know. I wasn’t there when they took Mum.

She probably called my name and I wasn’t listening. I came back later that day, as the sun was saying goodbye and the moon hello. I came back to find everyone else paired up with their Mum and mine not around. I called her but – for the first time – she didn’t come. She was gone. I was alone. I had heard stories like this. About Mums disappearing like this. I didn’t think it was real, I didn’t think it was true. I didn’t think scary wrong bad like that could live in the same world as the trees and the sky and the rain. I didn’t think it could ever happen. I didn’t think anything so scary wrong bad could ever happen. Not as long as I had Mum. Not as – not, not as long as –

…

She was gone. I was alone.

They took Mum in the middle of a summer day.

I grew up anyway, because you can’t stop time no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you cry. And you certainly can’t go back. I grew up without her even though I didn’t want to, even though I didn’t think I could. Then I saw her again.

I saw my Mum.

The farmer’s wife was wearing her.

As a jacket.

She stood with some other two-leggers and was laughing. She was laughing about something, laughing so hard. She was having a good time. She was wearing my Mum and laughing about it.

I screamed at her. I called her every nasty thing I could think of. She didn’t even turn her head. She got into her little metal box and went away. I pawed the ground and ran. Ran until my legs burned and my blood turned to acid and my mouth went dry, leaving the sour taste of metal. Ran that far and then some more.

But it wasn’t enough.

She got away.

I couldn’t catch her. I couldn’t do anything.

She was gone. I was alone.

Now I’m in this little wood box, too old to do anything but stand and remember and regret. Now I’m in this little wood box with these tubes hooked up to my bottom and it feels good, this thing it does, this slow, steady suckling. The way I used to suckle Mum when she would feed me, the two of us joined together, connected for a moment and forever. Something I’ve never felt except for these tubes. It feels good and sometimes I forget, I have to always stop myself and concentrate, even though it takes so much already, it’s so difficult already, so easy to just let go and enjoy the feeling, but I can’t, I have to be strong now, I have to do the right thing.

The other day, I heard two of them talking, walking down the narrow space between all these little wood boxes, two of them talking.

“Don’t be an asshole, Bernardo.”

“No, for real, man.”

“Whatever, dude.”

“Look, man, I’m telling you. I just heard it on the news. Fucking CNN motherfucker. Drinking a glass or two of milk a day increases the risk of Parkinson’s.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You’re bullshit.”

They kept walking.

The two-leggers are on to me. They’re close to discovering the truth about us all. Everyone who’s ever lost a Mum. But I can’t worry about that now. I can’t think about anything else. It takes so much already, it’s so difficult already.

I close my eyes and concentrate some more.

And I squirt my brain poison into their milk.