“What do you mean?”
We sit in side-by-side rockers on the front porch, the sound of the summer insects surrounding us with a nighttime song.
“Jenny told me the whole town is praying for him.” I suddenly stiffen, unsure if I should’ve said that out loud. What if George doesn’t know Ralph is sick?
“I mean, you live in such a small town; I guess everybody prays for everyone, right?”
George is quiet for a beat. In a feather-soft voice, he murmurs, “I know he’s dying. He told me.”
I reach for his hand. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
We rock in silence for several seconds, holding hands. George suddenly turns to face me with purpose, his handsome expression indicating seriousness.
“Have you ever wondered why bad things in life jump out at us more than the good things?”
I think for a moment. “No. Why do you think that is?”
“Because there are so many good things, so many that we stop noticing them all. They’re everywhere. They’re like… white noise. I mean, listen.”
I hold my breath and strain to hear what George is talking about, trying to understand what he means. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Yes, you do. The cicadas. They’re singing. And look up at the sky where the stars are starting to appear. I could spend my whole night looking at the stars.” His blue eyes are bright with hope as he stares into the heavens.
“The air around us is moving because the ceiling fan gives off a nice breeze. The grass out there next to the barn is green. The flowers in the fields are colorful. If you think about it, every inch of Jamison Farm is beautiful. There are far too many good things around here for us to count. But we just have to take the time to look—”
“—instead of focusing on the bad,” I interrupt, finally understanding. I squeeze his hand, and he smiles at me.
“Madison, I try not to think about my grandfather’s condition. But I know I need to. I mean, what’s going to happen when he gets sicker? What’s gonna happen when he’s gone? I know I can’t run this farm by myself.”
“Isn’t there someone in the business you can trust? Someone you can count on to help you when it’s time?”
Unfortunately, Kip Johnson immediately comes to mind. I don’t say anything and keep my impending anger at bay.
George pulls his hand from mine, and I know I’ve probably pushed him too hard.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s okay.” He’s deep in thought for several minutes before he finally speaks again, his voice barely a whisper.
“Do you want to know why I hate April Fools' Day with a passion?”
I frown. Poor George’s mind must be in overdrive with a million thoughts ping-ponging back and forth. But I’m glad he continues talking, even if he keeps changing the subject.
“Why do you hate April Fools' Day?”
“Because it takes me back to when certain people took advantage of my innocence and then made fun of me after I trusted them. I tend to believe people when they tell me things, even if they aren’t the truth, which has caused lots of problems throughout my life. As an adult, I try to watch out for it while still giving people the benefit of the doubt.”
“How horrible for you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve lived through it. And now, I still try not to think the worst of people. It’s helped that I can rely on mygrandfather to help me understand the intentions of others when possible. The hardest part is when I think I understand those intentions when I really don’t. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes, it does.”
“It’s taught me to focus on my strengths and do things that are easy for me but more difficult for others.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’m good at growing things or fixing machinery or appliances. I don’t know why I have this gift. But it’s come in handy the older I’ve become.”
