Autumn dreams

     I see you walking between the rows of autumn corn your pace a bit slower than last harvest season. You stop every so often and run your rough hands across a stalk as if saying goodbye to the very thing that made you who you are today. These fields provided for you and your father before you and never let you down except for the dust storm back in 65. That was a bad time for all the farmers, but you banded together and beat the odds replanting and going without until the next harvest and so many more that followed.

     Are you looking for me out here dad? You know I just didn't have the calling and that hurt you more than I probably know, but didn't you teach me to follow my dreams wherever it took me? Wasn’t it you who said I should farm if that's what I want, not what you want? I wrote a book dad. A book about the men who farm their father's dream. I spoke of you often and how you set aside your dreams to be the farmer your father wanted you to be. I wrote how proud I was of you for keeping the traditions of the family going even though I rarely ever saw you smile.

     I'm a writer dad and my passion is words. Will my son grow up to be a writer? Maybe, but he could grow up to be a farmer, his choice to make. Sometimes he dresses like you in the coveralls you gave him last Christmas. He walks around the table chewing a straw, we don't allow him to chew on corn silk just yet. He is with me today as you walk through your rows of autumn corn for all eternity. He can’t see you, but I see you in him and I know although I didn't follow in your footsteps I walked beside you like any proud son who loved their dad.