Although he has spent his entire life on this farm, Jonathan never tires of watching the dust being kicked up by the tractor. The smell tickles his fondest memories of being a child to life. He'd sit out on the fence watching his father swing back and forth through the fields dreaming of the day when the land would be his own, when his own son would till the same soil kept fertile by generations of Kents.
Never happier than he is in moments like these, working his
family's farm, alone with his thoughts and the beautiful land the good Lord has blessed him with. Stretching his tiring muscles, he looks out to the horizon, the dust sparking off of the setting sun, setting fire to the air around him as it clouds his vision with nothing but happy memories.
Jonathan stops the tractor, far too eager to stop and dwell in the moment. Grains and dirt swirl in the air around him settling on his clothes, his hair, and his hands. The grains of his fields consume the landscape, a solid blanket of yellow and gold, making it far too easy to see the spot of lavender laying in the field.
He recognizes the sight instantly, another memory from his past, although he certainly wasn't a child. When he first brought Martha home to his farm from Metropolis he had a difficult time convincing her that the decision to stay with him, here, was not a mistake. It wasn't until they had their first picnic, here in the field, that she fell in love with the land as deeply as she had with him. That spot became Martha's favorite on the farm. Clark has his loft, but Martha has her field.
Jonathan hops off of his tractor and traipses through the grain to join his wife, ready to steal a moment or two hidden beneath the shadowy tree she loves so well. Although she often retreats to this spot to be alone, she never denies Jonathan his intrusions. To her, her field, her spot, is equally theirs.
The summer Clark disappeared to Metropolis, Martha laid out here often, fully appreciating the symbolism of what this field did to her love of the city, and hoped that its magic would find its way to her son. The way the golden sun illuminates it this instant, it appears to be nothing shy of magical.
From his narrowing distance, he can tell she is lying down, as she often does when stealing a moment for herself. The slight curve of her form peeks up just enough to soften the flat rural landscape, and Jonathan smiles at the prospect of being by her side.
Bounding like a eager suitor, he reaches down and plucks a bouquet of wildflowers, longing to give back to her a sliver of the gifts she has filled his heart with.
Finally reaching her, he takes a second to find his breath, his heart beating as hard as it did the first time he brought Martha here. If only this person lying before him was Martha.
"Audrey?"
X x X x X
Martha expertly kneads a lump of dough between her fingers, dusting the counter with flour, rolling out the dough to begin cutting her biscuits. It's getting late, and she's behind on her dinner. She knows Jonathan will be driving his tractor back to the barn soon, the rumbling of the engine echoing off of the rickety walls. It's a familiar sound which is as comforting as it is rattling.
However, it's the fact that he's late, that the sound is not
rumbling in her ears, that worries her more than the idea that she may not have dinner on the table in time.
Her spine tingles, a fear and worry all too familiar to any
mother; A feeling with no logic or reason, which makes it all the more terrifying.
Driven by a feeling, that feeling that just leaped in her head, she puts down her dough, finding her way to the door as her mind races over every worse case scenario. Swinging the screen door open, paying no regard to the state of her dinner, or the mess she's just made, she brings her eyes to the field, freezing forever in her mind the image before her.
Bits of wet flour drip from her fingers as her hands hang limply at her side, her breath sliding down her throat where it will remain for what will seem like an eternity.
Silouhetted against the sun, Audrey is draped in Jonathan's strong arms, casting a dark shadow over their beautiful home. She knows her husband. His face betrays neither heartbreak nor pain. His eyes lock on their house, locking on her own. Martha doesn't need to hear him speak the words for her to know what he is steeling himself to have to tell her.
X x X x X
Clark's sense of smell may not as developed as the rest of his senses, but he needn't any powers at all to smell the dinner his mother's preparing downstairs. His heightened hearing does hear the pounding of her small fists against the counter; an all too familiar sound when his Mother is making biscuits from scratch.
It's a welcome sound because biscuits often mean they are
having fried chicken, and Clark is quite convinced that his mother's fried chicken alone justified his trip across the expanse of space.
His mother pounding out biscuits is a routine which he knows well, a skill she in fact prides herself on and a welcomed sound in their home. Soon, he will hear the crackling and popping of the chicken hitting the oil. Growing up in the home of such a precise cook, he can almost count from the time he hears the last pound of the biscuit to the moment the first chicken piece hits the fryer.
Allowing himself to be a little boy, he counts, amusing himself with a slight divergence from his homework. When he reaches the magic number, he doesn't hear the sizzling of the oil. Instead, he hears the dry grinding of the kitchen door's hinges, followed quickly by the smacking of the screen door against the frame. Why is his mom going outside?
Clark's large strides takes him on the short journey to his
bedroom window, breezing quickly past the vase of roses soaking up remnants of the setting sun. Just beyond the barn, shadowed by the quickly fading light, he sees his dad cradling Audrey in his arms, her limp hand brushing against the denim of his jeans.
His father's head is upright, his strong legs seeming to take an eternity to cover the short distance from the field to the house, and in these mere moments that take so long to unwind, it's the look on his father's face that tells him the most.
Not sure what has happened, Clark stands frozen, one thought refusing to escape his mind. Even though he has all of his abilities, even though he can do all of the things he can, he knows now without a doubt, his father is the strongest man he will ever know.