We loaded the hay-filled wagon that evening. Fathers & daughters, hand-in-hand, bundled under plaid blankets, bellies filled with hot cocoa and smores, excited by the possibility of seeing apparitions in the orchard. I took my place at the back of that horse-drawn cart to save you a seat; to wave at you as you parked the car; to show you off to my fellow girl scouts; to have you all to myself. We laughed and squealed as the horses shifted their weight from hoof to hoof, and rocked the carriage like a small craft at sea. I watched the parking lot grow darker in the distance, and hoped you would make it before we drifted out too far. The harvest moon was honest enough to tell me you weren’t coming, and kind enough to walk me home.
George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question.