He nodded.
We stood together while the workers poured the foundation of his home.
That moment did not erase the past.
But it gave the image a second meaning.
Today, Michael, Jennifer, and their children live in that house.
They visit me often.
On Sunday evenings, we sit on the porch and watch the sun lower behind the hills, just as Margaret and I once did.
Sometimes, while the grandchildren chase one another across the yard, I imagine I can feel her presence.
I think she would be proud of the healing that took place.
Not only proud of me for protecting our home, but proud of Michael for facing what he had done and finding his way back.
The concrete truck is gone.
The road is clear.
The scars remain.
Some wounds do not disappear completely, and I have learned that healing does not require us to pretend they never happened.
