You will have a home.
Your daughter will come back.
You will have a granddaughter.
You will build something useful.
Your mother will apologize.
Not enough.
But some.
Your brothers will return.
You will own the hill.
You will lose Patch.
That part will hurt.
You will help women whose names you do not yet know.
You will learn that freedom is not a gate opening.
It is building a life you are willing to stay inside.
But maybe I would not tell her.
Maybe she had to climb the hill without knowing.
Maybe hope works better when discovered.
Like a hollow sound beneath a stone.
Like a box buried in dirt.
Like initials carved into wood.
T. M.
My grandfather’s initials.
I still have the original box.
It sits on a shelf in my cabin.
The rusted latch is gone.
The wood is cracked.
Inside are copies now.
