My left ear was clogged. A pressure inside that was uncomfortable, but not debilitating. I had become almost entirely deaf in the ear. It felt like my head was stuffed.
I had dripped medicine into my ear, went to the hospital to have it flushed. Still, I could only half-hear.
And then, all at once, I lost hearing in my right ear. And the same pressure arrived. I was deaf. My head felt stuffed. Completely, distressingly stuffed. As if it was filled with straw.
I lied down in my bed, and a hat fell off of my head. But, I was not wearing a hat. I picked it up; it was made of tightly twined straw. A full brim around the hat. Reminded me of autumn, fields of heirloom pumpkins, trampled grass, corn, crows. And I thought, I hate crows. Hate them.
I touched my ear and didn’t know what I felt, but it was dry and it crackled in my touch. I sat up, seeing my legs swing off of the bed. I looked down at what I was wearing, at my chest, my arms. I was dressed in a pair of overalls, a flannel shirt, working gloves pulled over my hands. I didn’t own anything which looked like these items. But I thought, I hate crows. Hate them.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, standing in the center of my bedroom, wobbling for a moment. I turned to the mirror. Not sure what I was seeing, knowing exactly what I was seeing. My face was stitched. Rather haphazardly, I observed. My skin was rough, like burlap, which it may have been. I saw myself through my eyes. They were dark, they were buttons. I had never seen these buttons before. These buttons were my eyes and I had never seen through them before.
I went to pull off a glove from my hand, and as I did, I stopped. Under my glove was just straw. The same straw jutting from where my ears should have been. Because my ears were seams now and the straw was poking out.
I leaned over, reaching for my hat on the bed. I straightened it on my head. Pleased, but I thought, I hate crows. Hate them.
So, in a field, I write this. From a farm, I wrote this. As a scarecrow, I miss thou. I hate crows. I really do.