The first snow came the week before Christmas.
Jim Dowd stopped by that morning to sign a three-year lease on the cropland.
Same terms Mom gave him, plus two dollars an acre because beans were up.
He signed at the kitchen table with his gloves on the chair.
"Your mom would get a kick out of this," he said.
"She told me in 1996 a woman landlord is tougher than a man."
"She was right."
He looked out the window at the Kruse place across the road.
The pink flags were gone.
The survey stakes lay in a pile by the ditch where somebody had pulled them.
"Heard the Harlan barns are off," Jim said.
"I heard that too."
"My wife's glad."
"Downwind of four thousand hogs, she said she'd move to Ames."
He capped his pen and stood and pulled his gloves on.
"Same time next year, then."
"Same time next year."
He shook my hand like he'd shaken Mom's, once, firm, done.
Bernadette came at noon with a rhubarb pie and a red disposal bag from hospice.
She stood in the kitchen and pointed at the windowsill.
The pill organizer.
Thursday still full.
I'd put every pill back after Krista dumped them.
"It's time, honey," she said.
I opened Thursday.
I tipped it into the red bag.
Then Friday, Saturday, all of them.
Bernadette tied the bag and put it in her coat pocket.
Then she sat down and ate pie with me like nothing had happened.
That's how Lutherans grieve.
Tammy texted at two.
I'm so sorry about everything. I mean it.
Also do you know if Mom's life insurance went to the estate or to us?
I put the phone face-down on the table.
I didn't answer.
Dottie's Christmas card came in the afternoon mail.
A cardinal on a fence post, glitter all over my hands.
Inside, in shaky blue cursive, the kind Mom had at the end.
Circle meets Tuesday at ten. Bring the lemon bars. You're on the list. — D.
I put it on the fridge, where Glenn's used to go.
Glenn came at four.
He parked out at the gate by the road, like he wasn't sure he was allowed up the drive.
He was right.
I walked down to him in Mom's barn coat.
He looked older.
He was holding a Christmas card.
There was nobody else in the Tahoe.
"Krista's at her mother's in Ames," he said.
"The boys are with her."
"I'm sorry, Glenn."
I meant that part.
"My lawyer says a letter would help," he said.
"From family."
"Saying I was under stress."
"Saying Mom would've forgiven me."
He held out the card.
"And come for Christmas."
"The boys miss you."
"We can start over."
"You could have just signed, Nell."
"None of this had to happen."
"Mom couldn't sign," I said.
"She was in Room 318."
He looked down at the card in his hand.
Snow was collecting on his shoulders.
He didn't brush it off.
"No," I said.
He waited for the rest.
There wasn't any.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
He set the Christmas card on the gatepost.
Then he got back in the Tahoe and backed all the way down to the road, because he couldn't turn around without coming in.
I left the card on the post.
The snow had covered it by supper.
Inside, the big room was warm.
The hospital bed had been gone since October.
The two dents were still in the carpet.
I didn't try to fix them.
I hung Mom's quilt on a wooden rod on the wall above them.
Flour-sack squares, feed-bag blue and yellow.
I moved Mom's crossword chair back to the kitchen table, where it belonged.
I put the Casey's receipt in a frame from the dime store and stood it on the windowsill, where the pill organizer used to be.
Don't give it back to be loved.
Her handwriting, shaky but hers.
At nine, I did what Mom did every night of my life.
I walked to the back door and checked the latch.
I took the key out of my pocket, green ribbon frayed at the end.
I hung it on its hook.
Out the window, the gate stood open for Jim's tractor in the morning.
I left it that way.
Then I went up to the back bedroom, and for the first night in nine years, I slept until it was light.