When the voice of a loved one came and cut me down, I thought of the corn fields of my home. I could see them, waving in the wind and glistening in the sun. I could see the rows and rows of corn that blurred as we drove down country roads. I knew the difference between sweet and cow corn, but sometimes when there was no money, cow corn and a lot of butter would do. We picked the corn with respect, because this was the source of nourishment for some and income for others. As I attended to my wound, I thought of corn. The corn knew our gentle hands, but the corn also knew the sickle, the stomping foot of indiscriminating children, the teeth of a cow that escaped into their presence, but what about the random car swerving into the them as a result of drunken rage, insecurity or self-denial? The corn had known it all and so had I.