Chapter 16:
 

     After a lifetime on the farm, Jonathan never quite got tired of the dust kicked up by the tractor. The smell tickled his fondest memories of being a child to life. He'd sit out on the fence watching his father swing back and forth through the fields dreaming of the day when his own child would wistfully dream of his own future. The dust sparks off of the setting sun, setting fire to the air around him, clouding his vision with nothing but happy memories.

     Jonathan stops the tractor, far too eager to stop and dwell in the moment. Grains and dirt swirl in the air around him settling on his clothes, his hair, and his hands. The grains of his fields consume his horizon, a solid blanket of yellow and gold, making it far too easy to see the spot of blue laying in the field.

     He recognizes the sight instantly, another memory from his past, although he certainly wasn't a child. When he first brought Martha home to his farm from Metropolis he had a difficult time convincing her that the decision to stay with him, here, was not a mistake. It wasn't until they had their first picnic, here in the field, that she fell in love with the land as deeply as she had with him. That spot became Martha's favorite on the farm. Clark had his loft, but Martha had her field.

      Jonathan hopped off of his tractor and traipsed through the grain to join his wife. Although she often retreated to her field to be alone, she never denied Jonathan his intrusions.  To her, her field, her spot, was equally theirs.

      He could tell she was lying down, as she often did in the most trying of times. The summer Clark disappeared to Metropolis, Martha laid out here often, fully appreciating the symbolism of what this field did to her love of the city, and her hope that its magic would find its way to her son.

      Jonathan finally reaches her, his heart beating as hard as it did the first time he took Martha here.

      If only this person lying before him were Martha.

       "Audrey?"
 
 

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      Martha expertly kneads a lump of dough between her fingers, dusting the counter with flour, rolling out the dough to begin cutting her biscuits. It's getting late, and she's behind on her dinner. She knew Jonathan would be driving his tractor back to the barn soon, the rumbling of the engine echoing off of the rickety walls. It was a familiar sound which was as comforting as it was rattling.

      However, the fact that he was late, that the sound was not rumbling her ears, worried her more than the fact that she might not have dinner in time.

      Her spine tingled, a fear and worry all too familiar to any mother. A feeling with no logic or reason, which made it all the more terrifying.

      Martha puts down her dough and finds her way to the door, swinging it open.  Bits of wet flour drips from her fingers as her hands hang limply at her side, her breath sliding down her throat where it will remain for what will seem like an eternity.

      Audrey is draped in the strong arms of Martha's husband. She knows her husband. His face betrayed neither heartbreak nor pain. His eyes locked on the house, locking on her own. Martha didn't need to hear her husband say the words for her to know what he was steeling himself to have to tell her.
 
 

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      Clark's sense of smell was not as developed as the rest of his senses, but he needn't any powers at all to smell the dinner his mother was preparing downstairs. His heightened hearing did hear the pounding of her fists against the counter in an all too familiar sound of his Mother making biscuits.

      It was a welcome sound because biscuits often meant they were having fried chicken. Clark was quite convinced that his motherís fried chicken alone justified his trip across the expanse of space.

      His mother pounding out biscuits was a routine which he knew well. Soon, he would hear the crackling and popping of the chicken in the oil.  He could almost count from the time he hears the last pound of the biscuit to the moment the first chicken piece hits the fryer.

 Allowing himself to be a little boy, he counts. When he reaches the magic number, he doesn't hear the sizzling of the oil. Instead, he hears the dry grinding of the kitchen door's hinges. Why was his mother going outside?

      Clark's large stride takes him on the short journey to his bedroom window. He sees his father cradling Audrey in his arms, her limp hand brushing against the denim of his jeans. His father's head was upright, his strong legs seeming to take an eternity to cover the short distance from the field to the house. Clark wasn't sure what happened, but one thought did enter his mind.

      Even though Clark had all of his powers, even though he could do all of the things he could do: his father was the strongest man he had ever known.