“Yes, ma’am.”
Her mother’s slippers shuffled across the living room. Meadow could hear her opening cabinets that had nothing to do with purses. She waited for the next question because there was always a next question.
“You ate yet?” Magnolia called out.
“No, Mama.”
“You need to eat.” Her mother’s voice was distant, but the concern was real.
“I will.”
Meadow pulled her notebook closer and finally began writing. Not amounts, she had those memorized. She wrote simple notes to herself:
Call the tax office.
Ask about hardship plans.
Pick up Mama’s prescription.
Check the driving range equipment.
Buy groceries.
Stretch the rest.
Her handwriting curved downward on the page like even the letters were tired.
Ray’s boots sounded on the porch again before he walked in. He grabbed a towel from the counter, wiped dirt off his hands, and kissed Magnolia as she passed him. He didn’t look toward the bills. He saw them though. He always saw them. But he liked pretending money didn’t stress him out so he could walk around with his chest out like nothing was wrong.
“You good?” he asked Meadow without looking long enough to catch her expression.
“I’m fine,” she hummed even though her head was screaming to say ‘no’.
He nodded and went back outside, letting the screen door slap behind him. That was the conversation. That was all she got. Ray loved them, but love didn’t pay property taxes and it didn’t cover dementia medicine. He faked ignorance because he didn’t want to face how much weight Meadow carried for all three of them.
Meadow grabbed a different stack of mail - good mail, the ones that came with hand-drawn pictures from the kids she taught at the driving range. She flipped through a few, letting herself breathe. The kids were the only part of her day that felt light. They didn’t care about bills or taxes. They only cared about hitting the ball straight and drinking cold juice boxes. Every time she saw them smile, it reminded her why she kept pushing to keep the range open.
“You got this, shit, Marai,” she whispered to herself wishing she was just as resilient as her Black Cinderella. Wishing she had the courage to stand in the paint just waiting for it to dry.
She sat the letters down and pushed away from the table. Her chest felt full and tight at the same time. She walked outside and crossed the grass to her small plane parked behind the barn. Flying wasn’t an escape. It was a reset. A place where she could hear herself think without someone calling her name.
She climbed into the cockpit and closed the door. The chair hugged her body just right. She started the engine and let it warm as she put her headset on and pulled up her playlist.
“At what cost do I choose myself and put on my armor?” Meadow sung off key to Wale’s City On Fire.
She moved her body in the seat as she pulled out of the rickety cockpit that had never looked new. “The City’s on Fire…just don’t be a casualty.”
Her grandfather’s land spread wide in front of her. Grass moving. Sun rising. Everything quiet but extra loud in her mind.
She lifted off and flew low over the thirty-nine acres, slow enough to take in every piece of it. She wanted to see exactly what she was fighting for.
The barn her grandfather built.
The driveway her father resurfaced every summer.
The big pecan tree her mother used to sit under.
The range she kept alive with duct tape, cheap equipment, and prayers.
