That comforts me.
Not because he needs the dead to approve every choice I make, but because some values are inherited as the earth itself. You don’t own them as much as you administer them for a while. My grandfather gave my father a line to protect. My father gave it to me. One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll give it to someone after me, not just the surface, but the understanding that a limit only means something if you’re willing to defend it when the defense is inconvenient.
The Bowers have been good neighbors. Your dog comes from my side sometimes, a fat yellow lab called Biscuit that believes the boundaries are for less friendly species. Tom always calls before he gets it back. I always tell you not to worry. Dogs, unlike people, rarely hire lawyers before entering illegally.
Caleb finally bought a small spot five miles away. He still helps me during hay season and pretends he’s doing me a favor when we both know he likes to have a reason to go out. Rebecca remarried a good man in Huntsville. We are kind to each other when we meet, and I have learned that some losses may stop hurting without repenting. Ruth Ann still sends me a Christmas card from her law office. Harold retired, though he claims that surveyors don’t retire, they just “stop charging for being right.” Curtis Hale still responds to my calls, though it now begins with, “Do you need the dirt moving or justice?”
