traced the letters with his index certain she’d want to return to finger, mind racing backwards at the earth, her material self the smooth cold of the marble to becoming a part of something the day his grandson Allan had beautiful and eternal. shown up with it. Matthew took a got the bricks you handkerchief from his back pocket “I’ve wanted for Nana’s memorial and dusted off the stone. He then garden in the truck,” the tall boy, took the hand spade from well, man, said. of the another pocket and carefully dug “Instead plain red, though, I got nice white a hole about six inches to the left ones. I think it will look much of the bottom corner of the stone. better. They cost a little more, but When he finished that hole, he don’t worry about that.” Allan moved up six inches and dug paused before Matthew could ask another, repeating the process him to drive his truck around back until he’d dug six holes, two on and help unload the bricks. each of three of the stone’s sides. also got you this.” He He then fumbled around behind “I handed Matthew the heavy piece him until he found the old lunch of polished marble. It was maybe tray with two dozen Dixie cups on eight by twelve inches, and he it. Each of the cups was half filled immediately found the engraved with dirt and a small green shoot letters. figure if you’re going to that would grow into a bright “I put Nana back there, you got to yellow black-eyed Susan come mark it somehow.” June. That had been sixteen years Delicately, he removed the earlier. His Suzie had passed in plant and soil from the cups, October of 1998, her ashes dropping one in each hole he’d nestled in a brass urn until the dug. Then tender as handling a following spring. They had both newborn baby, Matthew filled in loved nature, loved to garden, the rest of the holes with dirt and and although they had never patted them down safe and discussed it directly, he felt secure. He mindlessly hummed an
traced the letters with his index finger, mind racing backwards at the smooth cold of the marble to the day his grandson Allan had shown up with it. “I’ve got the bricks you wanted for Nana’s memorial garden in the truck,” the tall boy, well, man, said. “Instead of the plain red, though, I got nice white ones. I think it will look much better. They cost a little more, but don’t worry about that.” Allan paused before Matthew could ask him to drive his truck around back and help unload the bricks. “I also got you this.” He handed Matthew the heavy piece of polished marble. It was maybe eight by twelve inches, and he immediately found the engraved letters. “I figure if you’re going to put Nana back there, you got to mark it somehow.” That had been sixteen years earlier. His Suzie had passed in October of 1998, her ashes nestled in a brass urn until the following spring. They had both loved nature, loved to garden, and although they had never discussed it directly, he felt certain she’d want to return to the earth, her material self becoming a part of something beautiful and eternal. Matthew took a handkerchief from his back pocket and dusted off the stone. He then took the hand spade from another pocket and carefully dug a hole about six inches to the left of the bottom corner of the stone. When he finished that hole, he moved up six inches and dug another, repeating the process until he’d dug six holes, two on each of three of the stone’s sides. He then fumbled around behind him until he found the old lunch tray with two dozen Dixie cups on it. Each of the cups was half filled with dirt and a small green shoot that would grow into a bright yellow black-eyed Susan come June. Delicately, he removed the plant and soil from the cups, dropping one in each hole he’d dug. Then tender as handling a newborn baby, Matthew filled in the rest of the holes with dirt and patted them down safe and secure. He mindlessly hummed an
2015%20Autumn%20S&S.docx