Who the Beans Are For
The letter came on a Tuesday.
I was standing at the sink rinsing out Dad’s coffee pot when he opened it. I heard the envelope tear. Then nothing. No sound at all.
I turned around.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with his reading glasses down his nose, holding a single sheet of paper. He read it once. Then he turned it over to see if there was anything on the back. There wasn’t. He turned it back over and read it again.
“Dad? What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He set the paper down on the table and smoothed it flat with both hands, the way he smooths the soil after he plants a seed.
“Says here,” he said slowly, “I’ve got unmaintained agricultural use in a residential zone.”
“What?”
He slid the letter across the table to me.
