I rolled down the window to test it out, and the chill that snuck down my spine strung a memory across the stage of my brain.
The fall after I turned seventeen held some of the worst months of my entire life after making one decision that would change the course of my entire life.
I remembered hating the change in the air, the coldness chilling me to the bone, slowly stealing who I was away from me. The fall signaled that summer was over, and saying goodbye to that summer wasn’t about the summer at all. Darkness came along with that goodbye, one that consumed me to my core and honestly still lingered in the shadows of my consciousness today.
My Jeep rolled still at a four-way stop, the red octagon forcing another memory to emerge. A better one. The sign was tattered with a few bullet holes and some graffiti under the large white letters that read STOP.
A smile creeped out.
Dad.
During one of our trips to Rolling Meadows that fall, on one of the really bad days, Dad had pulled his old red truck to the side of the road and made me get out.
“Come over here,” he’d said, pulling a chunky black Sharpie from his pocket.
Before I could ask him what he was doing, he started scribbling on the sign.
“Dad! What are you doing?” I gasped.
He hadn’t responded, at least not until he was done writing.
“We all need a reminder every now and then.”
He stepped back, enough that I could see the letters that now permanently resided on the sign.
Never STOP trusting who you are.
A tear had escaped and barreled down my cheek.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, don’t ever forget it,” he’d replied.
While the darkness at the time had been debilitating, I was lucky enough to be equipped with the impenetrable light of my parents’ love.
The three of us had always been close—perks of being an only child—but unfortunately, they no longer lived in Quincey Falls.
After they retired, they decided to move south—even farther—and settled in Florida. And while I knew they couldn’t love it more and I was constantly getting updates from Mom, especially when it came to Dad’s weekly pickleball appointments with all of their new neighbors, I desperately missed them. But I’d never say so, because nothing beat seeing the two of them happy and enjoying the life they had worked so hard for. Hell, last week, they sent me a selfie of the two of them at some jazz festival, drinking beer and having the time of their lives. If anyone deserved happiness, it was them.
My turn came quickly as I was lost in my thoughts. Rotating the steering wheel to the left, I turned off Route 27, signaling I was close. The gravel under my tires made the coins in my console jingle. Just a few miles from the main route was the familiar natural-colored wooden fence I’d helped George build back when I was in high school, about the same time that shit had felt really heavy.
Despite the circumstances, we’d done a pretty damn good job. That was nearly thirteen years ago, and she was still standing just as strong as the first day.
Two large metal Fs—for Freeman—flanked the giant wooden entry gates. Centered and dangling above them was a metal sign that read “Rolling Meadows Farm” with the farm’s logo of a single barn sitting atop the famous Tennessee hills.
Pulling in, I noticed George’s F150 parked at the barn, so I headed there first.
“George! George, are you here?” I called from the driver’s side window.
I slid out of the seat, snagging my caramel-colored barn jacket from the passenger side.
“George?” I yelled out again.
With no response, I figured he was tinkering around inside the barn apartment. I tugged the door open, a gust of warm air greeting me. George didn’t live in here, but all of his hobby shit did. Fishing flies was George’s thing, and when he committed to something, he really committed. The entire space had been consumed with everything one might need to tie the perfect fly and then some.
That was what I loved about George. That man had never half-assed something in his entire life, and he had the stories to prove it.
“George, are you in here?”
