The ranch owner thought.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised the younger woman.
“Of dying?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“Leaving.”
The granddaughter sat.
The ranch owner looked around.
“I spent so long trying to belong somewhere.”
Her voice softened.
“Now I dislike the idea of going.”
The granddaughter took her hand.
“Where do you think you'll go?”
The older woman smiled.
“I have no idea.”
“Grandfather?”
“Perhaps he'll complain about the coffee.”
“Would you like that?”
“Yes.”
They laughed.
Then the ranch owner became serious.
“Do not turn this house into a monument.”
The granddaughter stared.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Your grandfather said the same.”
“Did you listen?”
“Eventually.”
“What do you want us to keep?”
The ranch owner considered.
“The letter.”
“From the late owner?”
“Yes.”
“The deed?”
“If useful.”
“The bread plate?”
She smiled.
“That's yours.”
“The chairs?”
“Use them until they break.”
“And then?”
“Build better ones.”
The granddaughter cried openly.
The ranch owner squeezed her hand.
“Good.”
“What is good?”
“You're listening.”
Summer came.
The ranch owner lived long enough to sit beneath the cottonwood one last time.
They moved her carefully onto the porch.
Then down the broad incline built years earlier.
Several people offered help.
She accepted.
The old husband's chair still stood beneath the tree.
Weathered now.
Repaired twice.
The granddaughter asked, “Want his chair?”
The ranch owner smiled.
“Yes.”
They transferred her carefully.
For a while she sat alone.
The ranch spread before her.
Barns.
Fields.
Fences.
Cattle grazing beyond the creek.
Children running near the house.
A wagon coming up the road.
The sight looked ordinary.
That was perfect.
The granddaughter sat on the grass.
“What are you thinking?”
The ranch owner looked toward the porch.
“The bench.”
“What bench?”
“The one I ate on.”
The original bench had been moved years earlier to the garden, then replaced.
“It is gone.”
“I know.”
“Do you miss it?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“I like that it's gone.”
The granddaughter understood.
Not everything needed preserving.
Some objects had completed their purpose.
The ranch owner looked toward the dining-room window.
“You know what I wish?”
“What?”
“I wish the late owner had seen the house now.”
“Maybe she did.”
The older woman raised an eyebrow.
“You're becoming sentimental.”
“Age.”
“You're thirty.”
“Your influence.”
The ranch owner laughed.
She remained beneath the tree until evening.
When cold arrived, they brought her inside.
That night she asked to eat in the dining room.
The family gathered.
Not everyone.
Enough.
Soup.
Bread.
Roast chicken.
Nothing extravagant.
The ranch owner looked around the table.
Every chair occupied.
The granddaughter noticed.
“Need another?”
The ranch owner smiled.