The Sound of Plowed Earth

Coming of age, first love

The Sound of Plowed Earth

By Prier

         The bicycle tires crunched over gravel, each tiny stone shifting under the weight of Dean’s wiry frame. The summer air was warm but not stifling, and the faint tang of honeysuckle threaded through the breeze. Dean pedaled slowly, not out of laziness, but because he was savoring the journey. A dragonfly darted across his path, a blur of iridescence that seemed to defy gravity. He envied it—that freedom to fly, to move unbound by roads or rules.

         It was the summer of 1954, and he was fourteen, though fourteen felt like a strange, in-between age. Not yet a man, but no longer a boy. He felt it most when he thought about Laura. She was just two months older, but those months seemed to stretch into years when he sat across from her, trying to find the right words to say.

         Dean’s bicycle wobbled slightly as he neared her house, a small white clapboard tucked behind a picket fence that had seen better days. The porch swing was already creaking gently in the breeze, though no one sat in it yet. He could picture her there, waiting for him, her hair catching the light like spun gold.

         He dismounted and leaned his bike against the fence. The gate squealed as he pushed it open, and for a moment, he hesitated. Behind him, the world was vast and open, the gravel road stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Ahead of him, there was Laura. He chose her.

         She appeared in the doorway before he could knock, her face lighting up with a smile that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t fully understand. “Hey,” she said, brushing her hands on the hem of her cotton dress.

          “Hey,” he replied, suddenly shy.

         They settled into the porch swing, the chains groaning softly as they rocked back and forth. The rhythm was soothing, like the tide coming in and out, though neither of them had ever seen the ocean.

          “Did you bring your fishing rod?” Laura teased, her eyes sparkling.

         Dean grinned. “Not today. Just came to see you.”

         The words hung between them, simple yet charged. He looked down at his hands, rough from hours of gripping fishing lines and bike handlebars.

          “I started a new book,” Laura said, breaking the silence. “It’s about the Wright brothers. Did you know they had to build their own engine because nothing on the market was light enough for their plane?”

         Dean nodded, though he hadn’t known. He imagined the brothers in a dusty workshop, tinkering with gears and bolts, dreaming of the sky. “That’s pretty neat,” he said.

         Laura leaned closer, her excitement palpable. “Can you imagine it? Building something that could lift you off the ground, just... flying away?”

         Dean could imagine it. He’d spent countless afternoons lying in the tall grass by Denison Creek, staring up at the clouds and picturing himself soaring above them, wings strapped to his back. But he didn’t say that. It felt too silly, too big to share. Instead, he said, “Maybe someday I’ll take you flying.”

         She laughed, a sound like water bubbling over rocks. “I’d like that.”

         Across the road, the low hum of Mr. Maple’s tractor grew louder. Dean glanced up to see the farmer making steady passes through his field, the rows of earth turning over like the pages of a book. Each pass brought him closer to the house, and though Dean tried to ignore it, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

         Laura must have noticed too. Her voice lowered as she said, “He’s always staring. Doesn’t he have enough to do without worrying about us?”

         Dean shrugged, though unease prickled at the back of his neck. “Maybe he’s just nosy.”

         The tractor slowed as it reached the edge of the field. Dean watched as Mr. Maple climbed down, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. The old man crossed the road, his boots crunching on the gravel, and Dean felt his breath catch.

          “Go into the house, Laura,” Mr. Maple said, his voice gruff but steady.

         Laura hesitated, her eyes darting between Dean and the farmer. “But—”

          “Now,” Mr. Maple barked, and the force of it sent her scurrying inside without another word.

         Dean stood, his palms sweating despite the coolness of the shade. The porch swing swayed behind him, empty now, its chains clinking faintly.

         Mr. Maple stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the wooden planks. “Young man,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you’re not welcome. Get on that bike of yours and don’t come back.”

         Dean’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to demand an explanation, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded stiffly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He turned and walked back to his bike, the heat of Mr. Maple’s gaze burning into his back.

         As he pedaled away, the world seemed quieter, the birdsong muted and the wind still. He didn’t look back.



         Dean didn’t go back to Laura’s house that summer, or the summer after that. They saw each other at school, exchanged polite hellos in the hallway, but the easy camaraderie they’d shared on the porch swing was gone.

         Years passed, and life carried them in different directions. Dean went to work at the mill, while Laura moved to the city to study nursing. They wrote letters at first, but eventually, the letters stopped.

         Still, Dean couldn’t forget that summer, or the way Laura’s voice had sounded when she sang “Teach Me Tonight” on the bus ride home from Bethesda. He replayed that memory often, the warmth of her hand in his as the dark countryside blurred past the windows.

         One evening, years later, he found himself walking down the old gravel road. The air was cooler now, the sun dipping low on the horizon. He hadn’t planned to come, but his feet had carried him here, as if drawn by some unseen force.

         The house was still there, though the paint was peeling and the porch swing hung lopsided. The field across the road lay fallow, overgrown with weeds.

         Dean stood at the gate, his hands resting on the weathered wood. He could almost hear the creak of the swing, the murmur of Laura’s voice.

          “Dean?”

         The voice startled him, and he turned to see Laura standing behind him, older now but unmistakably her. She smiled, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all.

          “I didn’t think I’d see you here again,” she said, stepping closer.

          “I didn’t think I’d come back,” he admitted.

         They stood in silence, the weight of years pressing down on them.          Finally, Laura said, “Do you ever wonder why Mr. Maple was so angry that day?”

         Dean nodded. “All the time.”

         Laura hesitated, then said, “I asked my mother once. She said he’d lost his daughter years ago. She was our age when she died.”

         The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Dean thought of Mr. Maple’s face, the way he’d looked at them on the swing—not with anger, but with something deeper, something raw.

          “I think he was trying to protect us,” Laura said softly.

         Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight. “From what?”

          “From what he’d lost,” she replied.

         The sun dipped below the horizon, and the first stars began to appear. Dean looked at Laura, and for the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe again.

          “Do you want to sit?” he asked, gesturing to the broken swing.

         Laura smiled. “I’d like that.”

         They sat together, the swing creaking gently beneath them. The years stretched out before them, uncertain but full of possibility, like the open sky.