“I slept,” he moves to the next bin, checking the flow of feed from our place on the concrete aisle separating one row of stalls from the other.
He moves with practiced efficiency and few words, so I fall into step, checking the opposite row of feeders. Hogs line up like a team of little leaguers at the post-game ice cream parlor celebration, clamoring for their scoop. The soft hay at the back of their stalls is abandoned for breakfast.
Dad pauses across from me, his hand on the railing. I glance back over my shoulder, ready to quickly pivot to the job at hand if he catches me staring. He moves on as quickly as he stopped.
Stop being so soft and overthinking everything.
I focus on the hogs at my feeders and check each line as I pass it.
When we come to the end of the aisle, Dad smiles at me. “Hungry?”
“I could eat,” I say. It’s an exchange we’ve had for years. One of us asks and the other answers with that exact phrase.
I turn to him as we trudge through the mud-spotted driveway between the barn and the main house, gravel crunching beneath our boots.
Dad shouts up to Chet, “Breakfast in fifteen if you’re hungry.”
Chet nods in response, turning back to the silo without another word.
“Dad,” I say softly. “I know you don’t want me hoveringand checking on you. I just worry at times. And maybe I shouldn’t.”
He never wants to be the focus of anyone fussing, but I can’t seem to help myself. With everything shifting lately, the idea of possibly not being here every single day presses harder than I expect.
He sighs, stepping up onto the porch and lifting his foot to slip one mud-caked boot off. The boot drops to the porch with a thud.
“One day you’ll understand, Carli. This farm is all I have—my family and my land and the pigs we raise. I want to work it until I can’t anymore. Slowing down isn’t something I ever imagined for myself. I’d rather die with my hand to the plow. And I have no intention of dying anytime soon, so you and your mom can find yourself a new fixation.” He stares at me with a look of intensity he reserves for scoldings and business. He’s not angry. But he’s drawing a line. “I’m fine. So, I rest a little. I’m not about to let that get the best of me. I’m still good to go.”
I nod, agreeing to leave him alone even though my concern hasn’t abated even a little.
Dad tugs me close, pecking the top of my head, and then he pulls back and shoos me like a fly. “Go on and do what you’ve got to do.”
“I’m not abandoning the farm,” I assure him.
“I know you’re not. Not completely, anyway.”
“Not even a little,” I say, even though we both know that’s not true. In order to take the fire inspector position, I’ll be off the property five days a week. I won’t be here like I have been. But my heart will remain rooted here, at least in part.
We shuck our boots and head inside. We’re about to sit to breakfast when McKenna shows up, walking in without a knock.
“Hey!” I say, standing from my chair.
“Mmm. Smells good. What’s for breakfast?”
“Grits and eggs. Want some?” I ask her.
“Girl, yes. They don’t know grits in LA. Well, a few people, but they’re all transplants.”
“Dig in,” I tell her, pointing to the stove.
She dishes up a plate, chattering away the whole time.
“Okay, Mr. Buckner, tell me everything I missed while I was gone.” McKenna pulls out a chair, beaming at my dad.
His smile’s just as broad as hers. “If you want gossip, you need to go downtown. I’ve got nothing interesting to share.”
“I highly doubt that,” she says, looking at me. “It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.”
Dad chuckles. “How ’bout you, Hollywood? You bringing any of those actors home or are they all allergic to dirt?”
