You’re gonna land in a heap, like you were shot out of a cannon for thirty feet, and then you have to pick yourself up, all covered in dust and hay. I did it a few times for Margaret, and I’ll tell you she laughed until she cried.

I remember looking down at her from the loft with hay sticking out of my hair and grinning like an idiot, my joy at her joy bubbling out as a whoop, and then savoring the delight on her face as I jumped back down to snatch her up and spin her around.

But Margaret has been gone now for five years as of today, and I can’t bend my pride to do it, even though there isn’t another soul for a solid mile in any direction. So I solemnly climbed the ladder to the loft, feeling how the stiff soles of my boots flexed and slid on the painted wooden rungs.

When I got upstairs, I found the bales in a righteous mess, so I took my time stacking them properly, careful not to get dirty. I was wearing freshly pressed jeans and a flannel shirt that Mags had given me as a birthday present a few decades ago. It was faded and a bit thinner at the elbows than it used to be, but it was still my favorite.

Satisfied that my last chore was done properly and that the farm was in order, I got back into my old truck and headed towards the house. Together we bounced and rattled down the narrow dirt road, tired, but wearing our miles proudly.

I parked in the garage by the house, next to an empty space where Maggie’s car used to be, back before she couldn’t see well enough to drive anymore. I remember how much it had hurt her to be diminished like that, to have proof that she was becoming less every day, but as with everything else, she took it with a smile and a wink. She dickered with everyone who came to call about the car, as if she might suddenly decide she was going to keep it after all. It broke my heart when she finally sold it.