Inside lay a stack of envelopes, rubber-banded, and a single folded sheet of paper on top.
My name was on it. In his square, careful capitals.
KAREN.
I unfolded it. My hands didn’t want to cooperate. The meadowlark sang on and on, as though nothing had happened to anybody, as if the world were just a pleasant morning in a good country.
Karen,
If you’re reading this, you found the corner. I knew you would. You read my notebook like scripture.
I’m sorry I’m not good at talking. I’m sorry I didn’t say more while there was time. I thought about it every day. I’d open my mouth and there was nothing in it but “pass the salt.”
Here’s what’s in the box. It’s been in the ground since 2016, the year the drought took the creek bottom and we nearly lost the herd. Remember that spring, when I said I’d gotten a good price on the old Case? I hadn’t. I sold it for twenty-two thousand, and I buried the money, because I was scared. I didn’t want you to know how close we came.
