Will this be the last time I ever open a mailbox?
After sliding several bills into the battered aluminum box, I lift the flag and begin the long walk back to the house. Beyond the rail fence, five retired quarter horses quietly browse the tall grass, the sun dappling their coats. One of them sees me and begins a slow and stately approach, finally dropping his head over the side of the fence.
“Hey there, Magic.” I stroke the gelding’s nose, then scratch the bristly area between his ears. His lovely almond-shaped eyes blink as he whickers in contentment. “You’re a pretty boy, you know that? Then again, why wouldn’t you be? I spent an hour brushing you this morning.”
The horse shakes his head as my favorite orange hen comes strutting down the drive, a train of chicks behind her. Betsy the Easter Egger is one of the reasons our booth at the farmer’s market stays busy on Saturday mornings. The kids adore her pink eggs.
I wait until Betsy and her chicks cross the road, then I give Magic a final pat and continue my walk to the house, inhaling the mingled scents of manure and freshly cut hay. So many farewells to say, so little time. …
Two years of waiting have come and gone. For 730 days I’ve pretended to be content. I’ve behaved as if our loss didn’t matter and the doll-like infant we buried wasn’t real.
But she was. And we lost her because of me, so she’s another black mark on my record. God must be tired of debiting my account.
In four days, though, I’ll be settling my debts forever. I’ll leave my husband to carry on my work, my sisters to celebrate what they knew of my life, and my sweet animals to remind others that every living thing deserves a second chance.
Unlike me, who ruined someone’s life with every chance I got.
I climb the porch steps and tug on the sagging screen door, then turn to survey the place I’ll be leaving behind. Through the screen I see green pastures, a splintering fence, a weathered garage. A colossal live oak shivering in the fall breeze. This peeling house on stilts. Inside, a few pieces of faded furniture and a collection of brightly glazed pottery. All the things I’m willing to surrender as an act of restitution.
Even added together, it’s not so much when you’re the reason three people are dead.