There was no spiral of lazy blue smoke twisting from the rock chimney,
no white leghorn hen chasing a June bug, no horse or cow standing with head down and tail switching.
I saw I had left the door to the barn loft open. A tuft of hay hung out. It wavered gently in the warm summer breeze.
Something scurried across the vacant yard and disappeared under the barn.
It was Samie, our house cat. I heard my little sister say in a choking voice, “Mommie, we forgot Samie.”
There was no answer. To the left, I could see our fields and the zigzag lines of rail fences.
Farther down, I could see the shimmering whiteness of the tall sycamores.
My vision blurred as tears came to my eyes. The sorrowful silence was broken by my mother’s voice.
She asked, “Billy, can you see it?” “See what, Mama?” I asked. “The red fern,” she said.
My oldest sister spoke up. “I can see it,” she said. Rubbing my eyes, I looked to the hillside above our home.
There it stood in all its wild beauty, a waving red banner in a carpet of green.
It seemed to be saying, “Good-bye, and don’t worry, for I’ll be here always.”
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