She is kicking at something in the grass, grass halfway up to her knees nearly, knees no doubt as coarse as her bare elbows. Add a few years and she is my mother out in the yard kicking spirits away as she feeds the chickens. Passing, I try not to stare, but I take in a dirty-blonde head and a worn shirt open at a scrawny neck. Beyond, I give her the crazed eyes that dog me from life to life.