get older. I think about the way his hands looked, cracked and scarred, always carrying some small injury from work he considered too ordinary to mention. I think about how he would have reacted if he had come over that ridge and seen water where his pasture belonged. He would not have yelled first. He would have gone quiet. Then he would have measured. Then he would have acted.
That comforts me.
Not because I need the dead to approve every choice I make, but because some values are inherited
