I look back on all my years of sheriffin, all the maybes therein. I think about how lucky I was. When yer young the finality in everythin is vague. Like lookin out on the ocean and knowin there is land, another world entirely beyond the horizon, but truly believin yeh’ll never see it. That’s what old age is: comin, finally, upon that shore. Yeh can’t cheat it anymore. Eventually the boat is goin a run aground.

When Sara was still alive I’d lament the fall. Autumn. The leaves would start to drop and the wind would carry them away. Because she knew this about me, Sara would say, Yes, but it’s not like summer is gone forever. And that’s what we had then. We had the future. Spring would always return and every year we’d cut down a Christmas tree and each summer we’d sit in the bleachers and watch baseball. That’s what old age takes away from yeh. When yeh get to be my age there is no future and there’s nothin to plan for. And I know that sounds morbid but I don’t see it that way. I see a bit of solace in that. It’s a burden I no longer have to carry.