As a little girl, I was his shadow. I followed him between rows of corn and green beans, tugging clumsily at weeds while his hands moved with quiet precision. Sometimes he’d let me ride the horses—a privilege none of my cousins had—and it made me feel like I mattered. We’d fish by the pond in silence, and somehow that silence never felt empty. As I got older, I’d drive out to the farm just to sit beside him on the porch, sipping coffee while cicadas hummed. He told stories—short, sometimes funny, sometimes hard—but never too revealing. He didn’t explain the world. He respected it.Continue reading…
