Charles Heldis crumbled the head of the wheat stalk in his hand. The wind played over the field and with the sun bright in the August sky, it sent a ripple of gold as far as the eye could see. The bumper crop should have filled him with pride and contentment. It only reminded him of everything lost to him. Every harvest reminded him, each worse than the last. The more time passed, the less hope he carried.

Somewhere, his son walked the earth, or so he hoped. Two years without a word left him believing the boy was alive but he couldn’t be certain. Devin's not a boy any longer. At twenty-two, the same age as Devin now, Charles had held the tiny infant in his hands – his heart full of a joy he never knew existed; his mind awash in dreams and plans. 

“Where did it go wrong?” He always dreamed of working side by side with his son. Now lost to him, his son owned the part of his heart not belonging to Janice. Charles knew he failed his son. Janice warned him. Time and time again, she told him. He never listened. 

Looking over the field, he wished they were still with him – Janice full of health, and Devin running through the fields. His golden head used to blend in with the ripe wheat. If he could do it over again, would he have yelled at him for trampling a few stalks? He liked to think he wouldn’t, but he knew, in reality, the scenario would remain unchanged.  A farmer, a realist, Charles never understood the boy. 

Devin lived in a world of fantasy, of stories, and voices. “God, why didn’t I listen? I should have accepted his limitations.”  But he didn’t. He chastised Janice for enabling him; he pulled Devin out of therapy. Charles would not accept any flaw in his son. He believed he only needed discipline, guidance and a steady hand.  Wrong, so wrong, and his intolerance cost him everything. 

Not for the first time, Charles considered selling the farm. With nothing here to hold him, he could leave the pain and memories behind. Who am I fooling? They will follow me. At least, Devin can find his way home. Home – doubt if he thinks of it that way. “If only Janice lived. If only that damn cancer hadn’t taken her.”

Charles opened his hand and blew across it gently. The chaff flew across the field leaving the seeds behind.
 
“If only. . .” He dropped the seeds. Shoulders slumped, he ground them under his heavy boot.