can't recall from where, until he finally realizes a grim truth: it was him.  He listens to them as he begs and pleads with the man across the desk for more time.  Telling him how his family had the farm for generations for nearly a century. The cold blank walls that enclosed him didn't listen to his life story.  he retorted, saying they just needed more time, more rain.  But the only sound the man gave him His hand ran down the red forest of hair, making sure to feel each stand pass between his fingers, listening to the chestnut mare’s soft breathing and while grazing upon the grass beneath her. His feet stumbled and fell from below him in his drunken state as he made his way from the pasture.  Now lying on the cold, lifeless, dirt.  The calls of the crickets and animals began to muffle out. Now far out, the barn light began to dissipate from his vision and everything began to go dark.  The stiff cushion of the banker's chair comes back him.  Sitting in the lobby he begins searching for something to occupy his boredom, till eventually, he stumbles upon the new issue of Texas Monthly.  As he glazes the pictures he can hear the men in the room next to him. At first, he recognizes the voice but was the scratching of blood red ink onto the paper.  The morning call of the rooster brought him back to reality, now back on his feet, he shuffles to the house as dawn rose. When he reaches the front gate he falls to his knees and weeps. In front of him was a house, not his home. For his home held the laughter of children, happy gatherings, memories of all kind, and a marriage that was meant to last till death do them part. Now a casket, a shell, of a lonesome house that a lonesome farmer lived in stared back at him through the broken silhouettes of windows behind the bright foreclosure sign.