by Molly Burkett
Growing up, my grandma’s house was a fog of pink walls, catholic trinkets, and grey speckled guard dogs with pups. I used to visit on Sunday afternoons with my father after our weekly contribution to God. I can always remember the smell of the orange liquid soap, the sheep standing in the yard, and the stairs to the pigpen where my brother fell and broke his arm. There was enough land to get lost in, a barn full of animals and shit, and the freezer that held cartons of chocolate milk that my uncle would use to feed me. My grandma has since died and my visits to the Farm are less frequent. It’s deed is still in my family’s name and last Easter, I felt it was time to revisit and document some of the things that defined my wild childhood amongst severed chicken heads and bee boxes.