Jack Conway

In the End There is Only Ourselves to Blame

I have been trying to sell this farm for six years
without much luck. Whenever anyone asks how
much it costs, I say, "Everything," and they look 
lost. Well, not everything, I say, but a lot. The
gaze that comes over their face tells me they're
wondering whether I'm crazy or not. Sometimes
they stay and talk, more. I tell them, I've worked
this farm for 16 years, it has been a chore, from 
one end to the other. Out there, in that field, is 
where I buried my horse and two favorite dogs.
I planted those fruit trees, cherry and pear, I say. 
And over there is where my son hanged himself 
on Christmas Day. If they stay they usually ask, 
"How's the plumbing?" and I say, there's a tub 
upstairs that runs hot and cold. It's rust red, the 
pipes are old and the door doesn't latch. There 
are still scratches on it, if you saw, that my wife 
made trying to claw her way out. It's off its hinges
now. It has a brand new roof and the cellar is bone
dry. And there's a well where my youngest fell, 
and died, playing hide and seek. And the pump has
a leak. There's an extra room in the barn where my
brother stayed most of his life, before he ran off with
my wife. I don't know why. Buyers come and go 
and nobody makes an offer on the place, and well, 
I just don't understand why this old farm won't sell.