Page 33 of Shattered Melodies

Dad chuckled again, dusting off his hands on his jeans. “Can you blame ‘em? With you chasing ‘em around like a fox in the henhouse, I’d be jumpy too.”

I flipped him the bird, but I was grinning too. This was our thing, our ritual. Every morning, rain or shine, we’d come out to the coop and wrangle the chickens, trading barbs and insults like a couple of old coots on a porch.

It was comfortable, familiar. A reminder of simpler times, before the world had gotten so complicated and confusing.

I felt my smile falter a bit at the thought, a familiar ache settling into my chest. It had been a rough few years, watching her battle cancer with every ounce of strength she had. There were times when I thought we were going to lose her, when the chemo and the radiation and the endless rounds of tests and treatments seemed like they would never end.

But she was a fighter, my mom. Stubborn as a mule and twice as tough. She’d kicked cancer’s ass and come out the other side, a little worse for wear but still standing.

Still smiling.

“How’s she doing today?” I asked, my voice quiet and serious. “She seemed a little tired at breakfast.”

Dad sighed, leaning against the fence beside me. He looked older than I remembered, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper and more pronounced. “She has her good days and bad days, son. The depression… it’s still there, still lurking. But she’s stronger now, stronger than she was.”

I nodded, swallowing around the lump in my throat. I remembered those first few months after the treatment ended, when the numbness and the relief had given way to a dark, suffocating sadness that seemed to swallow her whole.

She wouldn’t get out of bed, wouldn’t eat or talk or even look at us. It was like the light had gone out of her eyes, like the cancer had taken something vital and irreplaceable.

Dad and I had been at a loss, desperate to help but not knowing how. We’d tried everything - therapy, medication, even some hippy-dippy herbal remedies that Dad’s buddy swore by.

But in the end, it was the little things that seemed to make the most difference. The walks in the garden, the quiet moments spent sipping tea and watching the sunset. The laughter and the stories and the memories of a life well-lived.

Slowly, painfully, she started to come back to us. Started to smile again, to laugh again. Started to look at the world with something other than despair and hopelessness.

It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t perfect. There were still bad days, still moments when the darkness seemed to close in and the ghosts of the past seemed to loom large.

But we were getting there. One day at a time, one step at a time.

“I’m glad she’s doing better,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “I hate seeing her like that, you know? Hate feeling so helpless.”

Dad put a hand on my shoulder, his grip strong and reassuring. “I know, son. I know. But we’re not helpless, not really. We’re here for her, always will be. And that counts for something.”

I nodded, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. He was right, I knew he was. But it didn’t make it any easier, didn’t make the ache in my chest any less sharp.

I cleared my throat, desperate to change the subject before I started bawling like a baby. “So, what’s on the agenda for today? More mucking out stalls and chasing chickens?”

Dad grinned, the gleam of mischief back in his eyes. “Nah, I thought we’d mix it up a bit. Maybe go cow tipping, or start a tractor pull. You know, really live on the edge.”

I snorted, shoving him playfully. “You’re a riot, old man. A regular comedian.”

He chuckled, shoving me back. “Watch it, kid. This old man can still whoop your ass.”

We laughed, the tension of the moment breaking like a fever. This was how we coped, how we kept the darkness at bay. With humor and hard work and the knowledge that no matter what life threw at us, we had each other.

Family. It was everything.

We spent the rest of the morning working on the ranch, fixing fences and hauling feed and doing all the little chores that kept the place running. It was hard work, backbreaking and exhausting, but there was a satisfaction in it too.

As the day wore on and the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Dad and I made our way back to the house. Mom was waiting for us on the porch, a pitcher of lemonade in her hand and a smile on her face.

“There’s my boys,” she said, her voice warm and fond. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost out there.”

I bounded up the steps, wrapping her in a hug that lifted her off her feet. She laughed, swatting at my arm until I put her down.

“Lost? Nah, we were just taking the scenic route. You know how Dad loves to stop and smell the manure.”

Mom wrinkled her nose, but she was still smiling. “Charming, as always. You sure do have a way with words, Caleb.”

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