Day Fifty-One: Pitchfork
Not a common one, I expect, but not an altogether unlikely weapon either, the pitchfork.
It had something to do with horse dung, though it would be difficult to say what exactly sparked the dispute. Indeed, what sparks anything between sisters? Something to do with a boy, undoubtedly, at that age. A harmless bit of teasing, perhaps? The very last chores of the day before dinner, mucking out the stall, and maybe, too, it was dark and cold. Maybe the flinging of dung was accidental, though I wouldn't bet on it. But what perfect symmetry of circumstance and timing could place her mouth just so and open to receive, at that very moment, a fist full of it? You can’t even make this stuff up. And who could have blamed her, then, for the tears and the wailing and the reach for whatever item was close and could serve a vengeful purpose? Trust a pitchfork to find its way around a barn—four sharpened teeth designed only to bite, a bit rusted but well versed at piercing, and ready at a moment’s notice to attack. So it is that we sometimes find ourselves, very young and very stupid, in complete endorsement of a terrible idea and fully equipped to execute it. As luck would have it in this case, both the sister and the vaulted implement reached the barn door at precisely the right moment.
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