Well, there she goes.

My youngest son, Brian, a sober and contemplative boy

of almost five, must have seen his mother as one who, at any time, might disappear and never be seen again.  This, I believe, is a rather common fear of young children.  Brian had never expressed this fear in words or tears.  he was no great talker but obviously a deep thinker for one not yet five.

One day it so happened that he was riding on the hay wagon with me while his mother and I were baling hay.  She was driving the tractor that pulled the baler onto which was hitched the wagon that received the hay bales from the baler.  I stacked the bales.  Brian observed and rode along atop the load.

This old baler made a fair racket as it hammered hay into bales.  The field was rough, we rolled along at a good clip and the hitch pin humped out leaving the wagon, me and Brian behind.  I yelled and yelled to alert Mom, to no avail.  She had her thoughts elsewhere, singing a song, looking afar off.  As she disappeared over a rise, Brian with a quiet and resigned expression said, "Well, there she goes."