Aunt June's expression changed.
“What about them?”
“They keep sending letters.”
She glanced toward an orange envelope near the edge of the table.
It bore the county seal.
“Yes.”
“Are we in trouble?”
She considered her answer carefully.
“The county says some of our water infrastructure needs inspection and that our documentation isn't complete.”
“But Grandpa inspected everything.”
“He maintained the system. That doesn't mean every record is easy for someone else to find.”
I frowned.
She continued.
“Some of the equipment is old. We need qualified people to inspect it and determine what should be repaired or replaced. That's reasonable.”
I nodded.
“But?”
She looked at me.
“But we also need to make sure the county understands what the system actually does before anyone makes decisions that could damage it.”
I glanced toward the orange envelope.
“Can't we just show them Grandpa's notebook?”
“We can show them relevant records.”
“Then why haven't they listened?”
Aunt June sighed.
“Sometimes people make decisions before they've collected enough information.”
She folded the letter.
“And sometimes the rules themselves are complicated.”
I looked toward the window again.
The old pipe poured cold mountain water into the pond.
The rainbow trout moved beneath the surface.
“They can't just take it away.”
Aunt June became serious.
“If somebody believes part of the system is unsafe, they have a responsibility to investigate. But we have rights too, and there are procedures they must follow.”
She touched my shoulder.
“That's for the adults to handle.”
I looked at her.
“I'm not a little kid.”
“I know.”
“Grandpa taught me everything.”
She smiled gently.
“He taught you a great deal.”
“Then I can help.”
Her smile softened.
“You already do.”
I shook my head.
“Not enough.”
She leaned closer.
“Owen, listen to me.”
I looked up.
“Your grandfather didn't love you because you knew how to measure water flow or read a wiring diagram.”
I swallowed.
“He loved you because you were his grandson.”
Her eyes filled.
“And I don't need you to save this farm by yourself.”
For several seconds, the kitchen was silent.
Then I whispered, “I don't want to lose anything else.”
Aunt June's face changed.
She understood.
I'd lost my mother.
Then Grandpa.
The farm was more than a business.
It was the last place where I could still hear their voices in my memory.
Aunt June stood and walked around the table.
She wrapped her arms around me.
I pressed my face against her shoulder.
For the first time in weeks, I cried.