My brother guided the machine across the field.
Sixteen straight rows stretched toward the far fence.
At the end, he slowed down and looked over his shoulder.
“Was that right?”
I studied the rows.
Then smiled.
“That’s exactly right, Phil.”
He nodded.
Didn’t say anything.
But I saw his eyes shine.
I turned toward the field to give him a moment.
At noon, Theresa brought sandwiches, coffee, and an entire pie.
We ate on the tailgate of Dad’s pickup.
The planter rested nearby.
Birds sang along the fence.
For the first time in a long while, the farm felt like home again.
I still drive Dad’s old feed truck every morning.
Phil keeps suggesting we buy something newer.
I tell him the truck runs fine.
Besides, it’s paid for.
The gloves remain on the dashboard.
Still curled into the shape of Dad’s hands.
His old seed-company cap sits beside them.
