Chapter 3

Suddenly angry, I hated anyone who’d ever traipsed through our fields. “Mom, what are you doing?”

She shook her head but didn’t speak.

“Let’s go inside where it’s cool,” I said, coming beside her.

“Is he really dead?”

“Yes,” I answered, fighting to control my voice from cracking.

She released the urn and fingered rolls of partially used ribbon and twine left on the potting table.

“Your father never tied ribbon correctly,” she said, forcing a pained smile. “Every time someone came to this table, he’d yell, ‘Luelle, for Christ’s sake, can you tie this damned thing?’” She looked at me. “Remember?”

“Every time.”

“His hands were so rough.” She shook her head and sniffed. “I loved him.”

I covered her hands with mine. “I know.”

“Your hands are just like his. Can you tie knots with the ribbons?”

“Nope.”

We smiled at each other.

“Let’s go inside,” I urged.