The Four Winds

You are of me, Loreda, in a way that can never be broken. You taught me love. You, first in the whole world, and my love for you will outlive me.

The love, it comes in the beginning of her life and at the end of yours. God is cruel that way.

No cracked earth, no blistering sun, no burning wind, no grasshoppers are a permanent match for the indomitable American farmers and stockmen and their wives

Love is what remains.

Her story—which is the story of a time and land and the indomitable will of a people—is my story; two lives woven together, and like any good story, ours will begin and end and begin again.

This is how my love for her goes on: in moments remembered and moments imagined. It’s how I keep her alive. Hers is the voice in my head, my conscience. I see the world, at least in part, through her eyes

Mother. Daughter.

Warrior.

Her.

She is what I miss every day, what I cannot replace.

You gave me wings, Mom. Did you know that? I feel you here. Will I always?

I never said I was proud of her,” Loreda said. “How could I—”

“Close your eyes,” Jack said. “Tell her now. I’ve been talking to my mom that way for years.”

“Do you think she hears?”

“Moms know everything, kid.”