I looked out over the forty miles of clean, sweet river water where my grandfather’s memory, my uniform’s honor, and my mother’s dignity had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Grandpa,” Elena whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“The mattress was lifted.”
“Mom is home.”
“The uniform held true.”
“The ledger is closed.”
“And around here…”
I stood up from the chair, holding Mom and Uncle David’s hands toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the river chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“…nobody ever, ever… audits an auditor again.”
Barnaby let out a soft, contented sigh on the porch rug, his tail thumping once against the cedar boards: *thump.*
Mom laughed into the warm sunlight.
The eagles climbed into the limitless blue sky.
