Six pigs, one farm, six different ways of looking at the same morning.
A few good years past forty
Papa Pig is the kind of pig who notices when a fence post leans funny and fixes it before he comes in for breakfast. He drives a red tractor named Old Ruby and tells the same three jokes every Sunday. The animals all listen when he hums.
"My favorite thing? Watching the sun come up over the back field while the kettle ticks. That, and a porch with all six of them on it."
As old as the oak tree feels
Mama Pig grows tomatoes that taste the way summer tastes, and when she bakes a pie, the whole farm leans toward the kitchen window. She knows every name of every animal — and a few names for the wind, too.
"My favorite thing is the moment right before the pie comes out of the oven, when the whole house holds its breath together."
Eighteen, on the edge of next
Big Sister Pig knows the names of all the horses and most of the wildflowers. She climbs into the hayloft with a book and a sweater and stays there until the light goes soft. This is her last summer at home before she heads off into the big somewhere.
"My favorite thing is the smell of the hayloft after it rains. And the way the horses don't ask any questions."
Seventeen and a half — he'll tell you the half
Big Brother Pig keeps a pencil behind one ear and a tape measure in his pocket. If something on the farm rattles, hisses, or refuses to start, he's already on his way. He's also the one who built the rope swing on the oak tree.
"My favorite thing is the click a fence latch makes when it finally lines up. That, and burgers on the back porch."
Fifteen, give or take a daydream
Middle Brother Pig plays guitar on the front porch most evenings, badly at first and then somehow beautifully. He's the one who taught the dog to fetch socks. He's also the one who lost the socks in the first place.
"My favorite thing is when the crickets and my guitar accidentally get in tune."
Five, and a half, thank you very much
Little Sister Pig wears rubber boots two sizes too big and considers every chicken a personal friend. She names the worms. She has names for at least three rocks. She is the loudest hello on the farm, and the softest goodnight.
"My favorite thing is Henrietta the chicken because she lets me hold her even when I have sticky hands."
Mama says we are a herd, a band, and a small weather system, depending on the time of day.