Billy's youngest sister, now grown up, recalls the Red Fern...and what it means to her.
And then they died, within days of each other. We then moved, but as we left we went to see them...and their Red Fern.
I'm the only one in my family still alive. My brother now runs through the forests of Heaven with his dogs in tow. Mama sits back on the steps of an old cottage, her face glowing as she and Papa talk and listen. My sisters run barefoot through the woods, laughing and yelling in joy as they follow my brother and his dogs. My husband takes our little boy Daniel and our daughter Annie through the forest, explaining every little leaf and branch and footprint. They giggle and smile, for they never knew the forest, only the town, and then the hard metal in the train crash that cost their lives and the life of their father. Up there, Red Ferns grow often. But still, on that one hill, grows the Red Fern.
Someday, I'll go back to the Red Fern. And if I'm silent and listen carefully, I'll hear the happy bay of a hunting hound, or my brother laughing, or my children giggling. And someday, someday...I'll see them all again, where the Red Fern grows.