I stand at the window. It’s a gloomy dawn, equipped with a steadily drizzling rain. A perfect day to conclude a gloomy act: I am selling our farm. I don’t want to, but I have no choice, even though this farm has been in our family for three generations. I can feel my father and grandfather turning over in their graves at the thought of selling.
The sharp ring of the phone interrupts me. Strange, at this early hour. I pick it up.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Jack, cousin. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but—”
“Jack?” I choked. “You’ve been missing for two years…..why are you calling?”
“Wendell, I know how it sounds, but listen,” he sighs. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I know you’re in financial trouble and I thought I could—”
“You call out of nowhere and expect me to listen?” My voice is deadly calm. “You ran away. You left us. You have no right to tell me or offer me anything.”
“No, listen to me.” His voice is firm. “I know all that. I’m sorry, more than you know. I had my reasons. I—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Jack. It’s done. You’re done.”
“Wendell, please, I—”
“Period.” I slam the phone down. Two hours later the contract is signed. I swallow as I accept the first payment. But my qualms at selling the farm suddenly turn to horror as I see the man turn to his wife and say: “Honey, looks like we got it! The perfect place to build the new subdivision!”
Jack, old boy, you should have called sooner.
The Alchemy of Art 