He chased her around the country for years. Watched a little girl become a young lady from the front seat of his pickup truck. Looked at her when her mom dropped the kid off for school. Saw her when she got her own car, a beat-up Dodge, parked at the DQ she worked at. He watched her grow up.

She was taken away in the middle of the night. Her mother packed a couple of suitcases and headed off for California. There was a note on the kitchen counter when he got home. Looking for a better life, it read. Don’t bother looking for us. We’ll be fine, written in red ink.

For a couple of days, he went on a drinking binge. Told the story to whoever would listen. Talked about mistakes he’d made; women on the side, too many drunk nights, putting his fist through a wood paneled wall. All of them told him the same, move on. But he couldn’t.

He knew she had a sister out in California, a trailer in Bakersfield. The young man followed the routes and highways out there cross country, over mountains, across rivers. Got her address from an old envelope she left behind in the dresser. A letter saying, come out here. You deserve better. He kept it on the dashboard.

This man had every intention of getting his woman and child back. Swore he’d drag them by the hair if he had to. But, when he got to the house as the sun was coming up, he froze. Felt a cold feeling inside. Knew things would never be the same.

So, he watched. Saw his girl grow up, his woman marry some insurance guy. Looked on without saying a word. Silence can kill you.

They found him out in New Mexico. Whiskey bottle on the floor of his Ford; a gunshot to the head. No note or letter. Just dried blood all over the cab. His radio was on. Playing gospel music on a Sunday morning. Some song called, I’ll Fly Away being sung by a choir. His eyes open. Wide open.