twenty-two years.
I knew every low spot.
Every change in soil.
Every section that dried slowly after heavy rain.
But that spring, I wasn’t there.
Theresa noticed me checking the weather reports.
One evening, she finally said, “Call Phil.”
I kept eating.
“About what?”
“Offer to help plant.”
“He has my number.”
“Wade.”
I looked up.
“He inherited the farm. If he wants me to plant it, he can ask.”
“That’s pride talking.”
“Some of it.”
“What about the rest?”
I put down my fork.
“I’ve worked those fields for
