I finally get it.
In the past, I would’ve run to the broken treehouse or the pond. My favorite escape since I was a child.
But now, I don’t feel the need to flee. Or the desire to count my breaths or close my eyes and disappear. I’m standing here in the moment, experiencing it all. And I’m better for it.
I’ve come full circle.
Life isn’t about me and what I feel. It’s about others. It’s about loving Madison and respecting the workers. It’s about forgiving Kip and not living in the past.
Burned barns can be built again. And that’s what I plan on doing. It’s as simple and complicated as that.
As the paramedics arrive and whisk Kip away on a stretcher, I give the local sheriff my statement. I’m candid and unafraid, holding Madison’s hand through it all.
When it’s just the two of us standing by the fence line of mangled wire, I kiss Madison on her temple and whisper, “I’m hungry.”
She looks up at me as if perplexed. “You’re… hungry?”
We start to walk, our steps in tandem across the grassy field as firemen continue to douse the smoldering embers of the once historic barn with precision.
“I was thinking peanut butter and strawberry jam.”
“For breakfast?” she laughs.
I laugh too, and it feels good. Real good.
“Yeah. Why not? It’s good to switch things up a bit sometimes. Don’t you think?”
She pulls me to a stop and palms my face with her hands. “I think everything you do is a good thing, George.”
Her lips are soft and decadent against mine, like the nectar of the juiciest, sweetest Georgia peach. Her kiss sends a rush of lust to my core.
“Mmmm, Madison,” I mumble.
The very presence of this woman in my life soothes the raw, jagged edges of my heart. She’s a reminder that no matter what we face, the good things always outweigh the bad. Through the fires and tribulations in life. When things seem difficult and unfair. When we lose the ones we love the most.
The good things—theblessings—are everywhere.
As we near the main house, where the scent of lavender hangs heavy in the aftermath, I feel Pop’s presence and look up into the sky. There’s a break in the smoky haze, and I squint in the brightness as a sunbeam penetrates my face.
“I hope you recognize the light when it hits you,” Madison says, squeezing my hand.
I blink several times and smile. “I do. I honestly do.”
June: Nine Months Later
Madison
Standing on the small embankment overlooking the lavender fields, I take in the splendid purple scenery of the flowers in full bloom. This has been a long time coming, nine months of waiting for the harvest season, the ripeness permeating the air with a heavenly scent.
After the barn fire last fall and the obliteration of a year’s worth of crops, George and I focused on setting up our new home and planning our wedding. During that time, I also got an idea.
I wanted to organize a festival. Not the kind with tons of vendors selling various arts and crafts. And definitely not the kind with dozens of food trucks, bouncy houses, or elbow-to-elbow crowds with hard-to-find parking. Nope, none of that.
I wanted this event to be something different. Something magical and unique.
I came up with the idea after witnessing dozens of Heartsboro folks gathered together at Jamison Farm for an old-fashioned barn raising. Our sweet, competent new foreman, Billy Hood, arranged this community outreach, and I was overwhelmed by the turnout.
People showed up with tools and machinery, food and drinks, the joyful atmosphere showcasing the community spirit of our small town. I watched our friends and neighbors leverage their collective strength and skills, volunteering their labor to construct a brand-new barn on our property.
