“I mowed 800 lawns. I never got invited into a single house.” That’s what I told the girl from the local paper when she came by to take a picture of me on my last day. I don’t think she expected that. Her smile drooped a little, like a wet towel on a clothesline. She […]

📘 Part 6 – The Garage Light 📘 Part 5 – The Last Diner in Town 📘 Part 4 – The Radio Still Works 📘 Part 3 – The Things We Leave Behind 📘 Part 2 – The Dog by the Pumps Part 1 – The Last Haul with Buck I buried my wife on

Continue Reading 📘 Part 3 — Red (1978–1989) Continue Reading 📘 Part 2 — Daisy (1965–1977) Part 1 The Last Dog at the Fence They buried her out by the west fence, just like the others — and this time, he didn’t bother to wipe the tears off his weathered face. The ground was still

“My husband never missed a milking. He missed my funeral.” I don’t say that with bitterness. The Lord knows there’s none left in me. It’s just the truth. Like how the rain smells different on hay than on gravel. Like how men in work boots carry their hearts in their calluses, not their pockets. I

“She’s gone. But I still make coffee for two every morning.” The old Mr. Stanley didn’t say much anymore. He used to fill a room with his voice — a booming baritone softened by a midwestern drawl and twenty years of marriage. But after Lorraine passed, the words dried up. Now, he only spoke when

The day Roy Sanders sold the last of his sheep, his old dog sat at the fence and howled like something sacred had died. It wasn’t a loud howl. Not one of those proud, sky-shaking things you’d hear in the mountains. No — it was a low, guttural sound, almost human. The kind of noise

The boy pointed and laughed, loud enough for the whole diner to hear. “Bet he fakes the wheelchair for a check,” he sneered, smirking to his friends like he’d just cracked a joke worth gold. “Old guys always milkin’ something.” Tom Granger didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. He just kept wheeling forward, his palms quiet

The boy knocked over the helmet before he ever asked what it meant to wear one. It clattered on the floor of the old firehouse like a gunshot, sending echoes across the steel lockers and rusted hooks. Dust floated in sunbeams that hadn’t moved since 1983. Everything smelled like old rubber, diesel, and ghosts. Frank

“I used to stitch up wounded farmhands with a flashlight and whiskey—now my grandson gets a sticker for logging onto Zoom.” That’s what I said to my wife last week, half joking, half aching. The house is quiet now. Too quiet. Mary passed in ’08, and the kids are grown and scattered like leaves in

“I planted those trees the year my daughter was born. They bulldozed them on her birthday.” The land behind my house used to smell like spring apples and dry leaves. You wouldn’t know it now, standing here with the wind kicking up bits of gravel from a parking lot. They slapped down asphalt where the