by Shannon McEntee
My parents got chickens about two years ago.
It was unexpected– my family is big on talking shop about all the great things they’ll do, everything on their platter. But they rarely get anything done. They overwhelm themselves with possibility, I think, and then the opportunity is gone.
It’s a loop we all find ourselves in sometimes.
I visit the chickens when I drive up north to my hometown; they’re now fully grown. They graduated from being little peepers in a plastic box in the kitchen, huddled under a heat lamp. Now they’re egg-producers; bratty too. They push past you when you open the coop, escaping out into the expanded run. They jump when you hold a bag of mealworms, snatching at the plastic with their beaks.
They’re needy, silly, as alive as you or me. My family is obsessed. “We’re chicken people now,” they’ve told me more than once.
The truth is
I feel disconnected.
I visit my family about twice a year. They beg for more, but I can’t handle it. Their house is too warm, too dark. They keep all the curtains closed. There’s no comfortable desk to sit at. I end up half-crouched on the couch, a laptop balanced on a cushion, watching repeats of some show– Mystery Science Theatre maybe. My parents visit the chickens what feels like every half-hour. But all I can think about is the hour-and-a-half drive home.
Sometimes you grow apart.
Sometimes you were never close in the first place.
I sit out with the chickens sometimes, but differently than they do I think. I sit in a lawn chair and listen to their gentle, contented clucking in the sun. It’s a simple thing to do. So much less complex than my usual every-day.
The truth is
I’m happy I’ve escaped my family’s expectations.
I’m happier now.
There’s chickens in the yard, scratching at the long grass and the orange poppies. There’s a blue sky overhead, and–
they’ve taught me that often
life is more about being who you are
than who you were supposed to be.
Shannon McEntee is a creative nonfiction writer who loves delving into the past, both collective and personal. She resides in Northern California, about 2 hours north of San Francisco.