The mark of Arthur Mercer Senior.
The mark of the bedrock.
Arthur and David ran up the cedar steps, setting their basket of strawberries on the chestnut table, throwing their strong, loving arms around my neck, pressing their soft, warm cheeks against mine:
“Dad!” Arthur laughed into the morning breeze, his heartbeat beating in rhythmic, sixty-cycle perfection against mine:
“Plumb level!”
“Good doggie!” David cheered, kissing Barnaby’s golden forehead as the dog wagged his tail:
“The bad parasites are in their cages!”
“We are home, Dad!”
Barnaby thumped his golden tail against the deck: thump.
I reached down, holding my brave, beautiful sons against my chest while Sarah, Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David stood beside us, feeling our steady, healthy hearts beating in unyielding, sovereign harmony:
“Nobody is ever kicking your seat, taking your peace, or stealing your birthright again, my brave boys,” Chancellor Adrian Arthur Mercer replied:
“The house is clean.”
