Adair’s Long Lost Pet Pig

Sitting there, slightly hunched (Adair knows better than to hunch– or sit too long), staring down into the swirls of Emie handcrafted cinnamon delight, roll delight, taking in, through her undilated nostril the undiluted aroma, aroma of homa,

Memories, impressions, love lost, mainly lost, memories of acute aromatic loves lost,

In homage,

A memory of Adair’s pet pig, specifically a piglet, and pet goat, specifically a kid.

Why do “we” unaboriginals call our children, after the practice of goats worldwide, kids?

On the other hand, why don’t “we” unaborignals call the progeny of goats, goatlets?

That time when the world was young, and Adair also, feeling lonely, because at six, she was growing older, wiser, weaker, and sentenced to first grade, the old parade, of separation.

Jakob and Emie could spare a dime to buy a doll, a raggedy anne, though not an andy, or as appeared in the local Five and Dime, Annelie. Yet on the Nebraskie farm, as if in charm, the sun shined on another Sprig o’ Spring. The sows were birthing chilluns by the millions, as were the goatinas.

Jakob and Emie, observant of the happenings, saw now and then when a friend in need– a piglet or kid– was cast in the outerbound– as a frown– good, tidy, clean well-lit arborist clown agrarians they were, were farmer-friends, indeed.

Adair’s raggedy anne would be a pennies from heaven dolly, that one piglet the sow denied a nipple, on the grounds there weren’t enough nipples to go around.