Beneath a Golden Sky

The sun is beginning to dip low, painting the California valley with a golden hue that seems to mock the desperation clinging to my soul. It's the summer of 1933, and The Great Depression has sunk its teeth deep into the flesh of this country, impacting many, especially the humble tiller of the soil. My family's land, a swath of earth that has fed us and many others for generations, now teems with the ghosts of past harvests.

As I stand surveying the expanse, my wife, Mary, approaches, her silhouette framed against the dying light. Once full of laughter and light, her face now carries the weight of our shared burdens.

"Thomas," she says, her voice a soft melody in the harshness of our reality, "the bank man came by today."