You Believers by Jane Bradley

washer, dryer, heat, and air conditioners. All stuff her daughter bought her, insisted that she have. Now her daughter was trying to talk her into getting a burglar alarm. “Everybody knows you live out there by yourself. Anything could happen to you.”
    But the old woman wasn’t worried. She’d lived a long life and seen a lot of things. Sure, she lived alone, but folks knew she had nothing in her house worth stealing, and they probably figured she had her husband’s old .22. She could still see clearly and wasn’t afraid of pulling a trigger.
    And she loved this land. Her husband had courted her with this five acres, and before long they’d had fifty. It was a home built on love, and much as her daughter wanted to her to sell and move to be with her in Poughkeepsie, she wasn’t budging. She knew she’d freeze half to death up there. This was her land, and the only way they’d get her out was in a box. Or a bag, she guessed. She watched police shows. They used black bags these days.
    She walked down into the yard to look up at the sky. Saw the Big Dipper. The top end of Scorpio and the other one she liked, Orion’s belt. Her husband had taught her to see these things.
    A hoot owl swooped in moonlight, grabbed something up and rose. She figured it had to be a field mouse scurrying toward the brambles out by the trash heap. She liked the predatory birds. Ospreys, red-tailed hawks, owls that sometimes looked big as boys sitting up in those trees. She’d watched a show on Discovery about these birds. Raptors was what they were called. She liked the way talons clutched the furred things, lifting them up against the sky to somewhere they could plunk them back on the dirt and eat. She liked the nature shows. Bears scooping salmon from the streams, stripping the skins off. The way the big cats stalked. The hammerhead shark and the way it used some kind of sonar to sniff out things to eat buried under the sand. They were smart. Every creature in the world was smart when it came to feeding time. That was one thing she’d learned from the nature shows.
    Her daughter thought she was strange. But the old woman said it was just nature she loved, flowers and fangs and all. Now she looked up at the full moon. You should see this , she thought to her husband, who had died twelve years before. He probably saw the moon. He probably saw the whole world, giraffes in Africa, the northern lights in Finland, and he probably saw all that meanness too that went on in the cities. That went on everywhere. But then there were always babies laughing somewhere, and that made things easier to bear. She liked to think that was what death might be like. It would be like the moon that sees everything, that circles around and around this world, just watching, waxing, waning, circling back around to see it all.
    She saw a rustling in the brush at the back of the yard, made it out to be the pair of deer that liked to come for the salt lick she’dlaid down. She liked watching the deer but had to keep her garden fenced. One year they’d snapped off the buds of all her lilies just as they were about to bloom. She saw them out there watching her. She made a little chucking sound, the way she talked to babies. She didn’t know deer language. They just stared at her for a minute and walked off. A breeze shook the trees. There had been such a drought lately. Here it was, late summer, and the leaves were already making a dry, brittle sound. She looked out at the field behind her house and ached for her husband, who used to plow that land, grew the sweetest corn in the county. She looked up, saw a shooting star, and made a wish for the safety of her daughter, who for some reason had decided to move up north.
    She looked back at that field, remembered the lush corn that used to grow. And she felt a sorrow as if something very sad had just flown over. She wondered how many more years she’d have to walk this world, waiting to meet her husband in eternity