Just Letting Go

Two days ago we walked through the gap in the chain-link fence and across the leafy graveyard with its live oak trees and silvered Spanish moss, maybe a couple dozen graves, one with an ancient confederate flag hanging from its stake like a wash rag. “Where would you like her to rest?” Rich, the funeral director, scuffed through the brown leaves, looking for small square markers. Though he was a young guy and would have probably been happier in front of the TV with a beer, he let the five of us practice standing under trees, testing how it felt under them. Later, I remembered his shiny black shoes and how cold it was out there despite the bright sun. We all agreed on a plot under a bent pine tree that felt sweet and homey. As we were leaving my brother Steve leaned towards me and whispered with his typical bleak humor, “Like Mom used to say, nothing like chain link to make you think of a recent shooting.” - story excerpt -