My friend dies of cancer during lambing time. I take his place in the lambing shed, disentangling the limbs of in-utero twins whilst his mutant cells poisoned him and every night he says, “I want to go home.” It was bitter cold, lambs were born into the deep, deep freeze… such a struggle.
My friend died at lambing time. Now we work all hours to get the hay in. Dust and heat, dust and heat.
aggiegoatmother 