Free Homespun by Layla M. Wier Page A

fibers—some raw, others carded and dyed in colors that had lost their luster. In the worst cases, the wool was so old and badly cared for that the strands broke when he finger-separated them. He still remembered where some of the batches had come from—this was a handful of the wool Laura had dyed with Kool-Aid in second grade; that was a wad of fine black Merino left over from a fleece they’d bought long ago at a craft fair. Others baffled him. What was this slippery reddish-gold fiber with the long strands—alpaca maybe?
    It didn’t matter, really. The mere act of sorting out the old fibers was the therapy he needed. Drafting the yarn through his hands, he let himself be drawn into the comfortable, familiar click-whir of the spinning wheel.
    Laura padded into the living room in a bathrobe, her hair dark and matted to her head from a recent shower. “Go to bed, Daddy.”
    “Need to clear my head.”
    Owen dropped back into the rhythm, pausing
    occasionally as the fiber snagged on the rough calluses of his mechanic’s hands. When he looked up again, she was gone.
    He spun the night away, taking long pauses to oil the wheel, stretch, and make himself coffee. Dawn found him sitting on the porch with his sore hands wrapped around a hot coffee mug, watching the stars wash away as the light turned gray, then pink. Long swatches of mist hung in the yard, looking soft as carded wool in the light of dawn.
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    “I still don’t know,” he said aloud to the still farmyard. “I don’t know, Ker. I want to help, and I want to be with you. I don’t know how to do either one of those things. Help me help you, love.”
    He walked to the milking barn across the fog-draped yard, composing and discarding speeches in his head. He’d never been good at talking. Maybe if he gave up on words….
    Maybe he could take Kerry into his arms and just hold him, like he should have done last night. If Kerry was still asleep, Owen could shuck his clothes and crawl into bed with him.
    They could make this work. He still believed so.
    He opened the door of the milking barn quietly—and stopped. There was a profound silence to the dark, cavernous emptiness within.
    “Ker?” Owen said, and flicked on the light. It was clear no one had slept there. The bed was made. The backpack was gone.
    Laura found him later, leaning on the fence and staring at the sheep as the rising sun winked through the trees. “Did you go to bed at all?” she asked.
    “Kerry’s gone,” Owen said. The words rang in the
    hollowness inside him.
    “Oh. Daddy.” She leaned on his shoulder. “Are you
    sure? Did you look—”
    “I walked all over the farm. Checked all the barns. He took his things. He’s gone, Laura.”
    His daughter put a hand under his stubbled chin and turned his head so she could look him in the eyes. “You know how I said I wasn’t going to give you any advice, Dad?”
    “I seem to recall something along those lines.”
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    “Well, here’s my one and only piece of advice. Go after him.”
    Owen frowned at her. She nudged him.
    “Go after him. He always leaves, and you never follow.”
    “But he always comes back ,” Owen said. “He needs time. He knows where to find us—”
    “Which means he’s always the one doing the work,
    Daddy. Now it’s time for you to take a turn.”
    Owen could feel the solid ground starting to crumble beneath his feet. “Honey, I don’t know where to look. He could be anywhere. I guess I could start in New York City, but even that’s….” He paused. Maybe there was a place to look, after all. “Unless he went home.”
    “To his family?”
    “His father’s dying.” The more he thought about it, the more right it felt. “He grew up in the Cleveland area. As far as I know, his family’s still there.”
    “So go .” She shook him gently. “I can take care of things here for a day or three. And I can use the old truck to get around. Hop in