A View of the Field
She always wanted a view of this field. We talked about it before, sitting on the porch drinking lemonade. She’d tell me, “Burt, plant me right up there so’s I can always keep an eye on ya.”
So that’s what I did.
Toward the end, she was hard to understand. She was always yelling, but the palsy made it hard to tell what she was saying. She’d get frustrated when I didn’t hear her right. I’d bring her soup, and she’d yell and throw it ‘cause what she wanted was something else.
Some nights I’d just go driving longer than I probably should have, but until you’ve been there your own self, I’d ask you to keep your opinion to yourself.
Then came the night she finally passed. I’d been in town, having some drinks at the tavern. I came home and she was screaming, like always. I went in to her and she had the devil’s fire in her eyes. She looked hard at me, tried to say something.
“Inn meh” she said.
I didn’t understand. I went closer.
“Kinn meh,” she said again, clearer.
I kissed her, and she spit in my eye.
“Kighgh me!” This time I knew.
I went out and fetched the shovel and showed it to her and she smiled. I knew what I needed to do then. And I did it. And then I buried her.
When it’s my time, son, please bury me anywhere you want except not under that tree.