* * *
Hannah opened her eyes, blinking against the blinding sun spitting through the tree branches overhead. She coughed. Her chest ached and her throat felt like someone had scored it with a rusty nail. A soaking wet, fully clothed Mr. Hartline leaned against the tree trunk, his tractor sitting idle in the middle of a half cut field in the distance. Her mother held a crying Macy on her hip.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Macy blubbered. “I’m sorry.”
George and David sat cross-legged on the dirt, bits of grass stuck to their bare legs, sullen looks on their faces, quiet, guilty.
“I told you. No swimming!” Her mother looked at each one of them, meeting their eyes and then turned and buried her face in Macy’s wet hair. “I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice caught.
“I was learning how to fly,” Macy offered quietly. “The boys taught me.” She smiled weakly and sniffled.
Mom placed Macy on the ground next to George and sat beside Hannah. She brushed Hannah’s wet hair from her forehead and kissed her nose.
“Thank God you’re okay.”
Hannah smiled.
Mr. Hartline knelt beside her mother and the wet knee of his blue jeans smeared in the dry dirt. He gently touched her mother’s back. And in that small gesture, an emptiness deep and wide opened inside of Hannah and she knew. She knew her mom was tired. And sad. She knew that the letter with the fancy writing was about Dad - that he probably wasn’t coming home.
And that she too, would have to learn to fly.