We sat on the tailgate of my truck behind the sale barn. After a long silence, Brent finally confessed everything. Two winters earlier, he had bought a used skid steer for a snow-clearing business, taking out loans he couldn’t afford. A mild winter had ruined the business, leaving him $19,400 behind on payments. The bank was threatening his truck, and he hadn’t told his wife, his father, or me. He said he had hoped to buy the tractor back before Virgil woke up. Then he admitted something that broke my heart: “I didn’t think he was going to wake up.” I didn’t shout or condemn him. I let him finish speaking.
I asked Wendell whether I could open the toolbox attached to the Farmall’s left fender. Inside, among Virgil’s wrenches and grease, was an old lard tin. It contained a soft white envelope with three words written across it: “For Brent. Later.” I handed it to him without reading it. The letter had been written three winters earlier, after Virgil received a warning about his heart. He explained that the tractor was only iron and paint. What he really wanted to leave his son was the seat. He had planned to give Brent the Farmall on his fortieth birthday, two years later, so he could drive it in the Labour Day parade with his own children riding the fender. Virgil wrote that he was prouder of Brent than his son could ever imagine. Near the bottom was one final sentence: “Be good to Marlene. She has been better to you than you have let her be.” Brent folded over and began to cry. I wrapped both arms around him and held on.
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
