When I walk these fields, I feel generations beside me. All those Lindts, bending over this wet clay soil, putting their hands in it, their shovels and seeds, their sweat. They pulled stones from the land to set the foundations for the house I live in now. They saw these same rose-colored skies glowing over the St. Marys River in the morning; the same June grass poking up bleached and dry through the crusted snow.

They walk beside me, and I tell them what’s on my mind. I tell them my plans for the farm, the price of hay and show lambs. I tell them about my wife and daughter. But mostly, I talk to them about Mary. I tell them about those nine months we had, screwing to beat hell, driving my piece-of-shit Ford with roads and roads before us, gravel jumping up and biting the undercarriage, dust flying up behind.

I tell them about that cold May night, when Mary stared out my truck window, far away and unreachable, with the St. Marys churning behind her like it’s done for ten thousand years. They were there that night. They saw everything. And they’re the only ones I can tell it to.