Part 6 – The Collar and the Road
Brandon didn’t drive off right away.
The engine was running, his duffel tossed in the back, but something kept him there—hands gripping the wheel, eyes locked on the porch. Three cats still lined the step like sentries. The donkey had moved off toward the hay bale but kept glancing back, ears twitching.
He rolled down the window and called out, “You sure you’re okay here by yourself, Marlene?”
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the cold, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I’ve got more company now than I ever did with people,” she said.
Brandon laughed under his breath. “Yeah… I believe that.”
He tapped the small wooden box she had given him—Socks’ collar inside, along with the red marble and her note. He hadn’t opened it again, hadn’t dared to. The weight of it felt holy, like ashes in a tin.
“I’ll write,” he promised.
“You’d better,” she said. “And if you find yourself passing through Jefferson County again…”
“I’ll come sit on the porch,” he said, finishing her sentence.
She nodded. “Good.”
Then she did something she hadn’t done in years—she stepped forward and reached through the window to place her hand on his shoulder. It was light, but steady.
“You brought him peace,” she whispered.
Brandon swallowed hard.
“No,” he said. “He gave me mine.”
The truck disappeared down the gravel road, tires leaving soft indentations in the muddy ruts from last week’s rain. Marlene stood outside until she couldn’t hear it anymore, then went back to the porch.
She sat.
The cats slowly returned to their usual routines—one curling up on the wicker chair, one chasing a beetle by the step, one disappearing around the side of the house.
Harlan let out a low huff and wandered toward the fence line.
Everything felt quieter.
But not empty.
She glanced toward the blanket still folded by the wall—Socks’ favorite. She hadn’t brought herself to wash it yet. His smell lingered, faint but warm. Dust, hay, and something sweet like old apples.
She reached for her knitting and began a few soft rows of nothing in particular. Just the rhythm of the needles, the whisper of wool.
Then—movement.
From the edge of the pasture came the familiar shuffle and scurry of small feet.
The possum.
And behind it—unbelievably—a second one, smaller, younger.
They made their way up the steps with no hesitation. Marlene didn’t move. Just watched as the older one placed something beside the blanket.
A dried-out apple core. Nearly intact.
A tribute.
The younger possum paused at the top of the step, sniffed the quilt, and nestled itself into a fold of it, curling like a comma at the end of a sentence.
Marlene smiled.
“Well, Socks,” she said softly. “Seems they’ve passed the watch, too.”
That night, a cold front moved in.
She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, turned off the porch light, and watched the wind scatter brittle leaves across the gravel.
From time to time, she imagined she heard a paw against the wood—just the soft scrape of claws—but she knew it was just the porch settling.
Still, it didn’t make her sad.
It made her feel watched over.
The next morning brought frost thick enough to glaze the windows. The field sparkled white, and a light fog hung low over the creek. Marlene put on her boots and walked the long path to Socks’ grave.
There, atop the mound of earth, someone—or something—had laid a fresh sprig of cedar.
Marlene bent down and touched it.
Still damp.
Still fragrant.
She looked up toward the woods but saw nothing but branches and breath in the cold.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”
That afternoon, she received a letter.
It was from Brandon. Already postmarked from the next town over.
Inside was a photograph—newly printed. It showed Socks’ grave at dawn, lit by the pale fire of morning light. Brandon had taken it before leaving.
He’d written on the back in shaky block letters:
“I didn’t say goodbye. I said thank you.”
A week passed.
Then another.
The porch remained a gathering place.
Harlan came daily. The barn cats grew more affectionate, even toward guests. The possums returned several times, always leaving something small—shells, string, a thimble.
And then one morning, Marlene heard something different.
Pawsteps.
Not soft like Socks’, not yet familiar. But definite. Hesitant.
She stepped outside and found a dog.
Young. Dirty. Thin.
Its fur was brindle, with white paws and ears folded unevenly like crumpled paper. A green collar hung loose around its neck, no tag.
It sat at the bottom step, tail tucked but eyes steady.
Marlene stared.
“Well,” she said, half to herself. “You’re late.”
The dog didn’t move.
She stepped forward slowly.
He let her.
She reached out and rubbed just behind his ear.
“You’ve got Socks’ eyes,” she said. “Different color, but same look. Like you’ve seen too much.”
He lowered his head.
She opened the screen door.
“Come sit awhile,” she said.
That evening, as the porch light flickered on, Marlene sat with the new dog curled at her feet.
She reached for the old blanket—Socks’ blanket—and laid it gently over his back.
Then she whispered, “You don’t have to replace him. Just rest.”
And from the field, in the deepening dusk, a low, familiar bray rose once again—
As if to say, Welcome to the watch.