In the great Festivus tradition. . .
This is what I am imagining:
that I didn’t get bad morning sickness and that I never said a word to the farmer’s wife. That I stayed out of her kitchen and never let her daughter near my kids. That I did not hear a word of complaint from her about her husband, her husband’s family, foreigners, customers, Joel Salatin, the USDA, etc. That she did not talk about me to her daughter and complain about only God knows what that I was not doing right. That her daughter did not call me a bitch in front of my children without explanation. That she did not get angry when I suggested that we could make a living farming and tell me she had been farming for twenty years and I didn’t know how expensive feed was (when I had been researching feed prices for weeks). That I could see the friends we made in Maryland without all the bad memories being there. That I could be in the snow. That we could have finished raising the pigs and taken them to butcher. That we could have raised turkeys and processed them. That I could have watched my heirloom tomatoes ripen fully and eaten them. That I could know I wasn’t lied about to people I liked on the other side of the country. That When summer rolls around again I am somewhere green and lush where a million fireflies come out at night. That I could be healthy and able to work with my husband. I am letting myself imagine all this just for a moment tonight, and then tomorrow I am going to wake up and let go of it, or at least try.