Every Six Months:

He had not been expecting a letter. There, wedged between the water bill and coupons for the local pizza place, it stared at him.

The crisp white envelope was hand addressed.The heavy ink bled, making his name look like a greeting on a Halloween card. Samuel H. Moore. It looked so official.

He couldn't recall the last time he was called Samuel. As a boy his mother called Sammy to dinner. In school, he was "Sam the ham" to those who adored his classroom antics.

But, today he was Samuel.

Gravel creaked under his worn sneakers as he slowly made his way up the driveway, away from the mailbox. The 150 foot stretch seemed like miles on the hot summer day. As the breeze floated across the farm, Sam took a deep breath as he stared at the letter.

During his labored steps Sam ran his hand across the fancy embossed return address. He noticed his dirt stained hands had more wrinkles than he could remember. Signs of a life well lived he reassured himself.

Samuel raised his head high, climbed the two steps to his front porch, and turn back one last time to gaze over the gentle rolling hills of the acreage. The corn tassels danced in the wind.

He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle as a tear formed and rolled down his cheek. He couldn't go inside and bring anymore bad news to his wife. After 40 years of marriage, they had endured so much, and now this one little letter might bring it all to a halt.

After a long sigh, Sam took a seat on the porch swing, swallowed hard, and stared at the letter.

Two weeks ago his doctor performed his six month regularly scheduled check up. Two years ago he was called a prostate cancer survivor. He earned that title after 36 rounds of radiation and numerous chemo cocktails.

The last four check ups had been routine. But this time Sam's palms were clammy with sweat, and his eyes were glossy. Something just wasn't right, and he was afraid his fears would be confirmed inside that envelope.

He wondered why after 62 years of life he couldn't just pass into heaven naturally. He figured years of fatty slab bacon, home churned butter and his evening pipe would have doomed his health long before cancer.

At that moment Sam took his life back. Like a newborn, the deepest breath filled his lungs as he wiped tears on his jeans. One big exhale, and he reached for the door.

The sound of tearing paper filled his ears as he stepped into the house.

"Hun, what took you so long? I made up some lemonade," Sam's bubbly wife called from the kitchen. "I thought we could sit out back and admire the crops since harvest is just around the corner. You know we still need to get the old Farmall looked...Sam?"

A grin covered Sam's face from ear to ear, as his hands held the opened letter.

"What? Cat got your tongue?" she laughed. "Sam, did we win the lottery? What's that? A letter?"

Sam began to laugh. He reached for his wife and allowed his arms to swallow her petite frame in his embrace.

"Yep," Sam laughed as he gazed into her angelic face. "We won again. We're still in remission. Now, let's have at that lemonade. It's not everyday that I win back the girl of my dreams."