Illusion

It was the year they left Mantua; the year they left the bank where the teller sat in the drive-through window framed by brick—a pretty picture of small-town life and love—dispensing cellophane-wrapped lollipops and conversation with every deposit and every withdrawal.

It was the year they moved to forty acres of cornfields and woods; dreams and intentions. She remembers waking to the silver tanker pulling into the dairy farm across the street. She remembers standing at the window, staring at the holsteins dotting the field, wrapping thick muscular tongues around patches of grass.

She remembers the time the farmer drove across the state highway dividing their property. She ventured outside, picking up twigs from the driveway, feining disinterest. The farmer wore dark blue pants and a button-up shirt. His skin was tanned and leathery. Occasionally, he would remove his striped conductor's cap to reveal the whispy hair beneath. For the duration of the visit, he kept his foot on the truck's running board, as if, at any moment, he would swing into the cab and drive home.

She circled closer.

She balanced on the bumper of the farmer's truck, watching through the glass of the cab. Her father nodded at the hospital band strangling the farmer's left wrist. “I'm sorry,” he said. The words felt heavy and inevitable.

The farmer nodded and looked across the street to his cows.

Eventually, he got into his truck and started the engine. And as he put the truck in reverse and began backing out of the driveway, she leapt from the bumper to safety.

It was the year they buried the farmer, despite fervent prayers lifted to heaven.

It was the year she learned of the fragility of life.

It was the year she learned that safety can be an illusion.

But it was also the year that she understood that love—for a town, for a bank teller, for a dairy farmer across the street, for a broken-down farm and a barn in disrepair—love always remains.

This was written in response to this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

On to the weekly challenge, in honor of the time we have spent together so far.

YEAR (noun)

1: the period of about 3651/4 solar days required for one revolution of the earth around the sun
2: a cycle in the Gregorian calendar of 365 or 366 days divided into 12 months beginning with January and ending with December

3 : a calendar year specified usually by a number <died in the year 1900>