Ferment and Knee-pants

‘This is for horses’ asses or people that fret too much’, catechized the man in the hat, ‘or wear the wrong hat on the wrong day, simple-minded fools.’ A fen rag sky, not azure blue or cerulean, a slough of flax clothe and soiled linen. The man in the hat remembered his mother dressing him in knee-pants, a red plastic belt cinched round his waist, her fingernails digging into the cull of his pelvis, a buzzing in his ears. These were memories he’d rather not have, things he’d rather forget, like a foul odor or a scabbed knee, or his father’s silence, the offal smell of ferment and malt that lived in the cellar.