There’s a frozen-in-time quality most places on the farm, thick enough to partially still the broken dreams and dusty sadness. I hug her, barely able to get my arms around her severely humped back. My mother, half a foot shorter than when she was in her 20s, comes out to greet me. My father is gone, but I still feel him by the barn, squinting at me like I’m an intruder. I pass the dirty-white barn, once packed with racehorses, recalling all the time I spent as a boy and teen mucking out their stables, wheelbarrowing load after heavy load of manure down the shed-row. Down the long unpaved driveway of my parents’ farm I ease my car, slowly enough to raise no dust, seeing the apple trees in blushing bloom and the acres of fields more yellow than green.
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