Friday, August 31, 2012
Rich man, Poor man
Rich man, Poor man
by
Phoenix Hocking
“Well, ma'am,” said the old gentleman as he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, “I've been rich and I've been poor. To tell you the truth, except for the not having any money part, I think I like being poor better.”
Clara took a sip of her coffee. She had been coming to the free meals at the Senior Center a couple times a week for the past month or so. She had hated coming in the beginning; it was simply one more reminder of how far she had fallen from what she considered “the good times.” But now she looked forward to chatting with the other “po' folk” she found there. Their stories never ceased to amaze her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Oh, the usual,” he replied. “My investments went in the toilet and government regulations pretty much flushed them away.”
The chatter flowed around them like a stream, carrying snippets of conversations. The aroma was an odd mixture of cooked food, overpowering Jean Nate' from the lady behind Clara, and unwashed body from any number of folks nearby.
“What do you mean by 'rich?'”
“Oh, I was pretty well off.” He took a hanky out of his pocket, blew his nose then wiped it back and forth. He stuck the hanky back in his pocket. “I had a nice house on the Bay and a vacation home up in the Catskills. A Mercedes-Benz in the garage, thank you very much. Never did have a yacht, though. Didn't have time for it. Too busy making money.”
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“It was good. Or at least I thought so at the time. When I was rich, though, I worried all the time. I was afraid of burglers. I was afraid of kidnappers. I was afraid of losing it all. I never knew my neighbors. We all just got in our cars in the morning to go to work, and sometimes we might nod to each other on the way past, but I never even knew most of their names.”
Clara thought about who her neighbors had been on either side of their tract house. She was surprised that she couldn't remember any of their names. Now that she lived in low-income senior housing, she knew more people there than she had when she lived with her husband in their modest middle-class home on Mulberry Street.
“I understand that,” she told the old gentleman. She stuck out her hand. “My name is Clara.”
He shook her hand, firmly but not overpowering. “And mine's Chet,” he said. “Short for Chester.”
“Oh!” Clara's eyes brightened. “Like on Gunsmoke! I used to love that show!”
Chet sighed. “I get that all the time,” he said, and grinned. “I don't mind, though. Chester was one of the good guys, and now that I don't have any money, I like to think I'm a good guy, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, man,” he said, “I used to think I was so all-fired pure. I'd give a buck to a bum on the street corner and think I'd done my good deed for the week. I never once looked past the dirt to see the person inside. Turns out those people was just me, waiting to happen.”
Around them, people were picking up their trays and moving towards the door. The volunteers were wiping tables and chatting amongst themselves.
“Now, see that one gal over there? The one with the gray hair and the bun?”
Clara looked and picked out the one Chet had indicated. “Yes.”
“She used to own “Molly's,” downtown.”
“Molly's?” Clara was incredulous. “I used to go there all the time. I was so bummed when they went out of business. What happened?”
“Her husband up and left and she couldn't keep up the payments on the place any more. Then she couldn't keep up the payments on the house any more. And then she couldn't keep up the payments on the car any more. She lives in a boarding house across the street.”
“Wow.”
Chet picked up his tray. “Yep. She volunteers here four days a week and eats here every day. I hear she's looking for work, but who wants to hire an old lady any more?”
Clara picked up her own tray and followed Chet to the tray drop off window.
“Well, Miss Clara, it was nice talking with you.” And Chet went out the door and picked up the sign he had stashed beside the building. “Homeless. Need help.” That's what the sign said.
Clara got in her car and started it, feeling incredibly rich, and more than a little blessed.
“Thank you, God,” she prayed, “for all the blessings you continue to shower into my life. Thank you for new friends and for people who love me. Show me, Lord, how I can be of service.”
She sat for a while with the engine running, then turned it off. She went back inside and found a volunteer worker.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can get a volunteer application?”
End
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Hard Times
Hard Times
by
Phoenix Hocking
Clara Martin had fallen on hard times. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that hard times had fallen on Clara Martin! Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard had more food than hers, and she was understandably depressed.
Now, Clara was not a slacker nor someone who spent a lifetime taking advantage of “the system.” No indeed. Clara was a hard worker, a college graduate (only an AA degree, but still . . .), and until recently, had worked her whole adult life.
She was single, having also recently lost her husband. Now, why do people say that, she thought. Why do people say “lost” as if their spouse has simply been misplaced somewhere? Charles is dead; and I know where he is.
And at that she smiled, picturing her Charles in Heaven, where she knew him to be at this very moment.
But that didn't help her current situation. Clara was still alone, broke, almost penniless, and there was no food in the house to speak of.
She had met someone in the parking lot of her apartment complex who told her about a food bank where the woman volunteered. Never in a million years had Clara thought she would find herself at a food bank. She had always worked. She and Charles had owned property, had nice things, traveled.
But Charles was dead, and when he died, the property, the nice things and the travel died with him. She was left to live on his Social Security survivor's benefits, and sometimes there was simply too much month left at the end of the money.
I can't possibly go to a food bank, Clara said to herself. I'd be too embarrassed. What if somebody I know sees me? I would just die! I can't do this. I can't!
But just then, her empty stomach spoke to her, and she plucked up her courage and said aloud, “Well, Clara old girl, you have to eat. You may not like it, but you have to do it.”
So Clara put her pride aside, got into the old clunker (that still ran, for which she was very grateful) and went to the place her neighbor had told her about.
The experience wasn't nearly as horrible as she had feared. The line was longer than she anticipated, but the people in the line were friendly and helpful. The lady at the intake window was kind and didn't spew her information all over the room, but instead spoke in low tones, with respect.
She received her yellow tag, went to the window designated, then went to stand outside in the shade while she waited for her box. A very nice young man came out and carried the box to the car for her.
“Have a good day, ma'am,” he said. And he smiled at her.
When she got home, she unpacked the box, grateful for the bounty. This is what she got:
1 dozen cookies,
1 loaf Italian Herb focaccia bread, 1 pkg white corn tortillas,
1 pkg blackberries, 1 pkg brussels sprouts, 1 lb hamburger,
1 container Philadelphia cooking creme (Savory lemon herb flavor),
6 bananas, 1 head of cauliflower, 1 large chili pepper, 1 artichoke,
2 avocados, 2 yellow bell peppers, 2 nectarines, 3 tomatoes,
1 large white onion, 1 18 oz bag of Oat Blenders cereal,
1 bag white rice, 1 15 oz container of Naked pomegranate acai juice,
1 can corn, 1 can fruit cocktail in heavy syrup, 2 cans tuna,
1 can Mild green chile enchilada sauce, 2 cans tomato sauce,
2 Jello Temptations pudding (French silk pie flavor), and
7 small cans of ????? No label.
Well, thought Clara. This is quite a haul.
She set about making something for dinner. She cut up the onion and put it in a bowl, then added one of the bell peppers. She chopped a tomato and threw that in. The hamburger was frozen, so that was out, but she had a hot dog left from her latest trip to the 99¢ store, so that went in as well.
The focaccia was hard and stale, but there was nothing green on it, so she cut off a slice and cut into chunks, then put the bread on a plate. She had some butter left over from her days of wealth, so put some of that in the skillet and added in all the ingredients. She let it saute' for a while and thought, This is going to be awfully dry.
She looked at the expiration date on the Philly. It was two months out of date, but it hadn't been opened and when she sniffed it, it smelled okay. Just for kicks, she decided to open one of the cans that had no label. It was as she thought, canned peaches. Oh, what the heck, she thought, and in that went as well.
When the goulash in the pan had cooked she covered the chunks of bread with it, sat down at the table, said grace, and dug in. It was surprisingly good.
And when she was done, she opened the container of cookies and had two for dessert.
Well, she thought, I guess I can do this after all.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Purchase
by
Phoenix Hocking
Ten dollars and fifty cents.
Misty rolled a fat blond sausage curl around her finger and looked at the coin rolls in front of her. It's not enough, she thought, unnecessarily. She knew it wasn't going to be enough when she started.
She put the excess (she liked to think of the coins that weren't quite enough for a roll as excess; it made her feel rich) back into the piggy bank, then sat back, spreading her legs out in front of her and placing her hands behind her on the floor. It's not enough.
Misty Mae Morgan was ten years old. She was a bright child, chubby-cheeked and cheery-eyed. Well, usually her eyes were bright and cheery. This morning, though, her little brow was creased with frowns and her eyes were dismayed.
It's not enough, she thought again. Then she brightened. Not by itself, but maybe . . . .
Misty Mae clambered to her feet, put the piggy bank back on the shelf, and stooped down to scoop up the rolls of coins from the floor.
She rushed from her room, down the hall, and through the kitchen. She barely remembered to stop the screen door from slamming as she hurried out.
“Where are you going?” Misty's mother called.
“Over to Tommy's! I'll be right back!” And she was gone.
Tommy Johnson was a monster. He had dark hair and dark eyes that matched his spirit. He had often been described as “that spoiled rotten little brat,” and that wasn't far off the mark. To say he was a despicable, nasty, horrid little boy would have been selling Tommy short.
All of those things were true. Tommy was a hideous child, mean to almost everyone. Nobody liked Tommy. Even Tommy's parents didn't like Tommy. In turn, Tommy didn't like anyone. Well, almost.
For reasons known only to themselves, Tommy and Misty liked each other. Perhaps Misty saw a spark of goodness hidden way far deep in Tommy's black little soul. And maybe Tommy saw in Misty a hint of what he could be if he'd just let his guard down for two seconds. Their friendship made no sense to anyone but each other.
Now, Tommy always had money. His parents weren't rich, not by any stretch. Both of them worked long hours, (Tommy was pretty sure they worked so much just to get away from him, and he may have been right) and Tommy was left to his own devices most of the time. And if your first thought was, “that can't be good,” you would be right.
Tommy knew people didn't like him. People would actually pay him to simply go away. And he was very good at going away. He just wasn't good at staying away.
This is how he would earn his money: Tommy would come and stand in front of someone and just look at them.
“Good God, Tommy,” the person would say after a while. “Why are you looking at me like that? Go away!” And Tommy would hold out his hand, his palm would be crossed with silver, and he would go away.
So, on this occasion, when Misty Mae needed money, she went to Tommy for a loan.
“Tommy!” Misty banged on Tommy's back door. “Tommy! Are you home?”
It was a silly question. Tommy was almost always home. He came to the door holding half a peanut butter sandwich, chewing with his mouth wide open.
“Close your mouth, Tommy,” Misty said. “That's disgusting.”
Only Misty could get away with a statement like that. If anyone else had said it, the person would soon be scraping peanut butter and jelly from their face. But for Misty, Tommy closed his mouth, swallowed, and said, “What do you want?”
“Gosh, Tommy,” Misty said. “Can't I just come over to say hi?”
“You could,” Tommy replied. “But you don't. What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
Tommy held the door open. “Sure.”
Misty and Tommy sat at the kitchen table, looking for all the world like Darkness and Light come together for a chat. Misty outlined her need. Tommy thought and agreed.
Tommy went to his room and came out again with the requested amount.
“Here,” he said, and put the rolled coins into her hand. “You know this is just a loan, right?”
“Oh, Tommy, you know I'll pay you back.”
“With interest!”
“With interest,” Misty agreed, and they linked their pinkies together, and swore.
Two days later and Misty was back. It was late afternoon and clouds were rolling in, spitting big blacks dots onto the pavement.
“Did you get it?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” Misty replied. “It's in my backpack.”
“You took it to school?”
“Nobody ever checks backpacks any more. Besides,” Misty grinned, “they'd never think to check mine. I'm too good.” She paused. “Now, yours they'd check.”
“Maybe so. So, can I see it?”
“Not now. I have to go home first.”
“Okay. See you after dinner.”
After dinner, safely ensconced in Tommy's room, Misty carefully removed her purchase from her backpack and put it on the table. They looked at it for a while, not speaking.
Then, “I don't get it,” Tommy said. “How can this thing be so dangerous?”
“I don't know either,” Misty replied. “All I know is, if I get caught with it at school, I'll get expelled. Go to prison maybe.”
“Nah, they don't send kids to prison for something like that.”
“I sure hope you're right.”
“They say this . . . this changes you. Do you think that's true?”
“I don't know,” Misty wrapped her purchase and put it back in her backpack.
“Wait,” Tommy said. “Aren't we . . . .”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow. At school.”
For the next couple of weeks Tommy and Misty met on the playground during their lunch period. Tommy's reputation as a troublemaker kept everyone, students and teachers alike, from investigating too closely.
And it seemed to people who were paying attention that the two children were different in some undefinable way. Misty seemed a little more brash, while Tommy seemed a little more mellow.
But one day, a shadow passed over the two, who were huddled over Misty's purchase.
“And just what do you think you've got there?” Mr. Brown's booming voice startled them both.
“Nothing,” they said in unison.
“Nothing, my foot,” said Mr. Brown. “Why . . . that's . . . . Ok, you two, come with me.” He held out his hand. “And I'll take that. What is wrong with you two? You know this isn't allowed in school!”
He snapped up Misty's purchase and asked, “And where did you get this?”
Misty straightened up, and with uncharacteristic boldness replied, “I bought it.”
“You bought it? With what?”
“I saved my money and I borrowed some from Tommy and I bought it.”
“Well, we'll just see about that!” He said. “March!”
Misty and Tommy sat outside the Principal's office, listening to their parents holler at the Principal.
“For THAT?” Misty's mother had never sounded so angry. “You're expelling my daughter for THAT? Are you CRAZY??? What did you expect her to DO with it, anyway?”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan,” the Principal sounded sheepish. “But those are the rules. Misty knew better and she brought it anyway.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Just fine.”
Mrs. Morgan slammed out of the office, with Tommy's father close behind. “Come on, you two. These people are crazy. Let's go get some ice cream.”
In the car, headed for Baskin Robbins, Misty asked the one question her mother didn't know how to answer.
“Mom, I don't understand.”
“What, honey?”
“What's wrong with bringing a Bible to school?”
Mrs. Morgan sighed. “I don't know, honey. I really don't know.”
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Jasper's Free Time
Jasper's
Free Time
By
Phoenix
Hocking
“Waaaait...”
I say. “Waaait...” Jasper is quivering with excitement. He's
not pulling at the leash, though; he knows better. I reach down and
unhook the leash from his harness. “Okay, go!” And he's off,
flying like the wind down the dusty road next to the field.
It's a
relatively cool morning, all things considered. It is the middle of
summer and the past week has been brutal with heat. We've not been
out for days and my boy is full of pent-up energy.
To my
left the field is naught but dirt. Once it was an orchard, plums if
I remember correctly. But for some unknown reason, the farmer has
ripped up all the trees and now the land simply bakes a dark brown in
the summer sun.
To my
right the field is eye-high weeds to start, then becomes yellow
stubble pocked with green weeds. This road follows the field for a
straight stretch, then becomes a path around the bare field to the
left and the yellow field to the right. A dry creek follows the
path, and when we are lucky enough to find water there, Jasper will
jump right in, drinking the water as he swims.
This is
Jasper's free time. Most of the time, depending on what other dogs
are walking the field at the same time, he can be off-leash for most
of the way. It's his favorite place around here to go. When we
lived in Cambria, he could be off-leash at the Fiscallini Ranch
Preserve. In Arkansas he didn't know what a leash was, often roaming
the countryside for miles to hunt or visit friends.
But
today, we have the field to ourselves and he is making the most of
it. He runs with total abandon, sometimes coming to a screeching
halt to turn around and sniff at something that has caught his
attention.
Jasper
is foremostly a Beagle, mixed with a good dose of Jack Russell
Terrier and a hint of Collie. I don't see the Collie myself, but his
previous owners assure me it's there. If anything, the Collie comes
out in his temperament, because he's a mellow dog, friendly and
surprisingly quiet.
Jasper shoots off into the field and squats to do his business. If
he goes anywhere near the path, I pick it up, but when he goes off
into the field, I don't bother. After all, 1)
it's a snake hideout and 2) by the time I get to that location I'll
never find it in the brush. He finishes, covers up the steam,
and runs on ahead, scouting for squirrels.
Sure
enough, about half a block ahead, a group of three, no . . . four
squirrels run across the road and Jasper is quickly in hot pursuit.
I think he knows he has no chance of catching them, but the joy is in
the chase and he chases for all he's worth. He is a hunter, after
all. He follows his prey to a large pile of dead wood the farmer has
pulled up from the old orchard. It is now home to squirrels and
rabbits and God knows what else. Jasper noses around for a while,
then heads down the path to the right, our usual way.
There
are no other dogs in the field today, so he has the place to himself.
Generally, he knows and likes most of the other dogs he meets on our
walks around the field. He's not fond of the “bully” breeds,
though, and when we see one coming I leash him up. No sense in
taking chances. But today, there is nobody here but my dog and me,
and we're enjoying the cool morning.
We reach
the three-quarter place, which is the spot where I usually leash him
up. The path alongside the fence is home to a number of squirrels
that are just too close to the path for comfort. And the other side
of the fence is known as “Rattlesnake Heaven” and I have no wish
to try and go fetch him if he goes off on a merry chase through that
place.
But
today, for a change, we turn around and go back in the direction from
which we came. Yes, it will be longer, but I want Jasper to be able
to drink a little longer from freedom's cup. and he takes full
advantage of the opportunity to run ahead.
He
stops, lifts a paw, and waits for me. “What's the matter, boy?”
I ask, “Got a sticker?”
I feel
on his pad, remove the sticker from his paw and he's off again,
stopping occasionally to lift a paw like a Retriever and point at
something that catches his focus. He leaves another small steaming
present in a pile of leaves, covers and goes on.
We're on
the main road again and he's starting to slow down. He's out in the
field, but every so often he'll turn around, find me, and then
continue on. As we come closer to the end of the road, where I've
parked the car, I call out, “Wait, please.” He doesn't stop on a
dime, but waits for me in that general area until I reach him and put the leash back on his harness.
We walk
the rest of the way, Jasper panting slightly. I open the car door.
“Up,” I say, and he climbs into the front seat. “Over,” I
say, and he gets into his place on the passenger side. “Good boy!”
I get
the red plastic bowl from the backseat and squirt some water into it.
He drinks it all, and then sits in his place, smiling as only a
truly happy dog can smile. It's been a good morning.
End
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Kansas, 1939
Kansas,
1939
By
Phoenix
Hocking
October 7, 1939. On
a lonely Kansas hillside, silhouetted against a gray and barren sky,
stands a solitary man before a makeshift tombstone. His overalls hang
loosely on his gaunt frame, mute testimony to better days. Absently,
he scratches his nose, and then wipes grit and sweat from his face.
Another child gone.
Another child gone to the Great Beyond, he thinks, and he
scratches, and wipes, and wonders what land his child now inhabits.
Certainly it had to be better than this God-forsaken place.
I’m sorry,
God, he prays, and crosses himself like the papist do. I know
that no place is forsaken as long as You are there. But, where are
You, God? Where are You?
Scrawny prairie
grass stands weakly on every side, flat yellow in color and spirit,
tired of growing, of living, of fighting the winds. Autumn bears down
upon the land as though an early winter pushes it along, racing
behind it like thunderclouds on a stormy day.
With effort, he
tears his eyes from the tombstone and surveys his land. Parched,
wilted, tired. It has not rained for months, it seems. In fact, he
cannot remember the last time it rained. For ten long years he has
watched the deadly dust consume his land. His crops lie withered in
the fields; his friends moved away to lands more hospitable; his
children dead of hunger and strange diseases.
His wife, once so
beautiful and full of promise, is now thin as a scarecrow, unable to
muster the strength to bury one more child. She is home, staring into
the fire, hands idle, her hair uncombed, body unwashed, parched,
wilted, tired as the land.
Why did I stay,
Lord? He asks, but expects no
answer. God has been silent, after all, for what seems a very long
time. I thought this drought couldn't last forever, and
now I've killed my children waiting for You to help us. Where are
You?
Seven little graves
adorn the hillside. Seven makeshift tombstones, Rebecca being the
latest to join her siblings in Paradise. He says a prayer over her
grave. It is almost the only prayer he knows by heart, and he says
it, wondering anew just what it means. “Our Father,” he begins,
and the wind carries his words away.
He stands for a few
more minutes, gathering his energy and his courage. It is not easy to
bury your own child by yourself. The land without water is hard and
dry and unforgiving. It is backbreaking, soul-searing work to dig a
grave with your child’s dead body beside you, decaying in the heat.
But the work is
done now, the child buried and at peace, thank You, Jesus, and
now life must go on. He thinks for a minute about that. Life must go
on. Sometimes he wonders why, but that is the way of it. Life goes
on, and there is not much you can do about it until it doesn’t go
on any more.
He rubs his
sunburned neck, raises his weather-beaten face to the sky and says
the only other prayer he knows. “Thy will be done.”
He then raises the
shovel to his shoulder and turns in the direction of his home.
Down the hill and a
little way across the prairie his humble shack sits in the shade of
the only tree around for miles. A thin column of smoke rises from the
chimney. He imagines his scarecrow wife staring blankly at the
cooking fire and cringes. There is, after all, nothing left to cook.
In the beginning,
when the children began to die, the man and his wife would comfort
one another, holding on to each other in the dead of night,
whispering words of hope and encouragement, mingling their tears. But
not now, not any more. That was seven children ago and no more to
bury, thank You, God. They had no more tears to cry; not for
the children, not for each other.
He starts down, the
wind whistling through his thin cotton overalls as if he has nothing
on. He squints his eyes against the bluster, angry at the fickle,
lying weather.
How often had the
sky darkened and the wind blow, but no rain fell? How often had storm
clouds gathered on the horizon, only to disappear once they reached
his land? How often had the dust blocked out the sun and daylight
turn to night? How often had he prayed for rain and there was none?
How often?
He
searches the sky as he walks down the hill. Where are You,
God? Where are You?
He places the
shovel against the side of the shack and gently creaks open the door.
Inside, the shack is cool and dark, wind entering the chinks in the
walls like an uninvited guest. His eyes adjust slowly and he turns to
the barely smoldering fire.
The table is bare,
the chair is empty. A thin and hungry rat foots it across the
overhead beam, peering down with beady, yellow eyes. He grabs a metal
cup and throws it at the rat, yells, “Get out!” The rat jumps,
crosses the beam and disappears into the darkness.
He draws the
curtain that separates the bedchamber from the living area of the
shack, but she is not there either. Heavily, he sits at the table and
wonders where she might be. Perhaps she is in the outhouse, and will
return soon. He is too tired to go look for her. Hee doesn’t like
to disturb her there anyway. Everyone should have a little peace and
quiet while attending to the needs of nature.
He closes his eyes,
laden with the day’s wearisome burden. He is totally spent,
consumed by fate as surely as buzzards consume carrion. Exhaustion
creeps into his bones, and he sleeps.
He dreams. He
dreams of green pastures, and fat flocks grazing, and his children
laughing.
But mostly he dreams
of rain, wonderful, beautiful rain, soaking the parched earth. In his
dreams, his crops rise high, high, high into the sky, and his wife is
smiling as she works beside him to gather them in. And he dreams that
his children are alive again. It is a good dream.
It is dusk when he
awakens. The fire has gone out and still his wife has not returned.
Alarmed now, he rises up, puts his hat on and goes outside. The wind
whips fiercely around him, buffeting his thin body like a
prizefighter, over-matched.
He calls, and calls
again, but there is no answer.
He finds her behind
the house, crumpled like one of Rebecca’s old dolls, the revolver
beside her. Weeping, he cradles her limp, emaciated body. There are
more tears after all. He carries her inside and gently lays her on
the bed.
Outside the wind
howls and screams, and inside a man cries out to God. Why? Why,
God? Why her? Why me? Damn You, God! This
time, he doesn't cross himself.
He lays down beside
her and rocks his wife’s body, back and forth, back and forth, and
croons the lullabies he used to sing to his children. His tears drop
onto her face, now gray and ashen as the sky. She does not look
peaceful, she only looks dead.
After a while, in
the dark shack, his tears subside. He continues to hold her,
unwilling to let her go. And eventually, he falls asleep.
It is early morning
when he awakens. His wife is stiff beside him, and he thinks, One
more gone to the Great Beyond.
And then, he
becomes aware of a noise, unheard these many days. It is the
unmistakable melody of rain pattering on the tin roof; an amiable,
affectionate sound, like an old friend dropping by for tea.
He rubs his eyes
and gets out of bed. Briefly, he covers his face with his hands, then
straightens. He puts the revolver in his pocket, feels the weight of
it through the thin cotton. Gently, oh so gently, he picks up his
wife’s body and cradles her to his chest. He pauses to collect the
shovel by the door, and turns his face to a lonely hill across the
Kansas prairie.
End
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