I meant to write you,
	but life is hard here, life is good.

We are free here, life is hard.
	Babies live and babies die - 
		more live, thank God, but life is hard here, life is good.

I meant to tell you,
	but then the corn came in, and the beans,
and all the garden needed tending,
	and putting up for Winter that is so hard here,
and so good.

The land is good here,
	so much like home but better,
		and hard.

I miss you, We miss you! Miss you all!
	But life is free here, free and fresh - 

Fresh start! Love’s heart...

I meant to remember you,
	to my children.
But they forget to ask and I forget to tell.

	Life is hard here,
Life is good!
	And we live,
hard lives, but good lives!

	Mary, she’s our eldest - 
she’s had a child.
	Named him Vincent.

He looks a lot like pop,
	and sometimes whern I have a minute,
		I think to tell her so.

And then the winds blow,
	and the rain comes,
		and one of the cows needs help with her calving,
and all of a sudden that boy is ten years old,
	and I am older...
                  So is Sarah,
and the time has come and gone, 
                      and I remember how much I love you both,
	how much I miss you...and home.

It hurts. It’s hard.
	We all knew the truth.

		We’d never see one another again.

I meant to tell them who we are,
	who you were,
		about the farm, and all the things I remembered...
	about you and home.

But somehow, when the time comes, and the thought comes,
	it hurts to remember -
Hurts to tell them about where we came from and they never will know.

You know?

I meant to tell stories.
		But the words came too hard.
Meant to talk to them about home,
	till I remembered that home is here now.

There is no meanness meant by that,
	nor disrespect.

But this life, this hard life - 
	This GOOD life,
		is all that they know.

And, for all we wish it, what we know,
	who we were, who you are,
is all for naught.

We love you. 
	And remember - 
although we will be the last
for memory's sake,
     and sanity, and safety, and this good life.