veered up the ridge, but they soon disappeared into the woods. Then there was only silence.
She stood by the tombstone, dirt the stone mason had displaced darkening the grave. Her father had been a hard man to live with, awkward in his affection, never saying much. His temper like a kitchen match waiting to be struck, especially if he’d been drinking. One of Rachel’s clearest memories of her mother was lying on her parents’ bed on a hot day. She’d told her mother that the blue bedspread felt cool and smooth despite the summer heat, like it’d feel if you could sleep on top of a creek pool. Because it’s satin , her mother said, and Rachel had thought even the word was cool and smooth, whispery like the sound of a creek. She remembered the day her father took the bedspread and threw it into the hearth. It was the morning after her mother left, and as her father stuffed the satin bedspread deeper into the flames, he’d told Rachel to never mention her mother again, if Rachel did he’d slap her mouth. Whether he would have or not, she had never risked finding out. Rachel heard an older woman at the funeral claim her father had been a different manbefore her mother left, less prone to anger and bitterness. Never bad to drink. Rachel couldn’t remember that man.
Yet he’d raised a child by himself, a girl child, and Rachel figured he’d done it as well as any man could have alone. She’d never gone wanting for food and clothing. There were plenty of things he hadn’t taught her, maybe couldn’t teach her, but she’d learned about crops and plants and animals, how to mend a fence and chink a cabin. He’d had her do these things herself while he watched. Making sure she knew how, Rachel now realized, when he’d not be around to do it for her. What was that, if not a kind of love.
She touched the tombstone and felt its sturdiness and solidity. It made her think of the cradle her father had built two weeks before he died. He’d brought it in and set it by her bed, not speaking a single word acknowledging he’d made it for the child. But she could see the care in the making of it, how he’d built it out of hickory, the hardest and most lasting wood there was. Made not just to last but to look pretty, for he’d sanded the cradle and then varnished it with linseed oil.
Rachel removed her hand from a stone she knew would outlast her lifetime, and that meant it would outlast her grief. I’ve gotten him buried in Godly ground and I’ve burned the clothes he died in, Rachel told herself. I’ve signed the death certificate and now his grave stone’s up. I’ve done all I can do. As she told herself this, Rachel felt the grief inside grow so wide and deep it felt like a dark fathomless pool she’d never emerge from. Because there was nothing left to do now, nothing except endure it.
Think of something happy, she told herself, something he did for you. A small thing. For a few moments nothing came. Then something did, something that had happened about this time of year. After supper her father had gone to the barn while Rachel went to the garden. In the waning light she’d gathered ripe pole beans whose dark pods nestled up to the rows of sweet corn she’d planted as trellis. Her father called from the barn mouth, and she’d set the wash pan between two rows, thinking he needed her to carry the milk pail to the springhouse.
“Pretty, isn’t it,” he’d said as she entered the barn.
Her father pointed to a large silver-green moth. For a few minutes the chores were put off as the two of them just stood there. The barn’s stripes of light grew dimmer, and the moth seemed to brighten, as if the slow open and close of its wings gathered up the evening’s last light. Then the creature rose. As the moth fluttered out into the night, her father had lifted his large strong hand and settled it on Rachel’s shoulder a moment, not turning to her as he did so. A moth at twilight, a touch of a hand on her back.
She stood by the tombstone, dirt the stone mason had displaced darkening the grave. Her father had been a hard man to live with, awkward in his affection, never saying much. His temper like a kitchen match waiting to be struck, especially if he’d been drinking. One of Rachel’s clearest memories of her mother was lying on her parents’ bed on a hot day. She’d told her mother that the blue bedspread felt cool and smooth despite the summer heat, like it’d feel if you could sleep on top of a creek pool. Because it’s satin , her mother said, and Rachel had thought even the word was cool and smooth, whispery like the sound of a creek. She remembered the day her father took the bedspread and threw it into the hearth. It was the morning after her mother left, and as her father stuffed the satin bedspread deeper into the flames, he’d told Rachel to never mention her mother again, if Rachel did he’d slap her mouth. Whether he would have or not, she had never risked finding out. Rachel heard an older woman at the funeral claim her father had been a different manbefore her mother left, less prone to anger and bitterness. Never bad to drink. Rachel couldn’t remember that man.
Yet he’d raised a child by himself, a girl child, and Rachel figured he’d done it as well as any man could have alone. She’d never gone wanting for food and clothing. There were plenty of things he hadn’t taught her, maybe couldn’t teach her, but she’d learned about crops and plants and animals, how to mend a fence and chink a cabin. He’d had her do these things herself while he watched. Making sure she knew how, Rachel now realized, when he’d not be around to do it for her. What was that, if not a kind of love.
She touched the tombstone and felt its sturdiness and solidity. It made her think of the cradle her father had built two weeks before he died. He’d brought it in and set it by her bed, not speaking a single word acknowledging he’d made it for the child. But she could see the care in the making of it, how he’d built it out of hickory, the hardest and most lasting wood there was. Made not just to last but to look pretty, for he’d sanded the cradle and then varnished it with linseed oil.
Rachel removed her hand from a stone she knew would outlast her lifetime, and that meant it would outlast her grief. I’ve gotten him buried in Godly ground and I’ve burned the clothes he died in, Rachel told herself. I’ve signed the death certificate and now his grave stone’s up. I’ve done all I can do. As she told herself this, Rachel felt the grief inside grow so wide and deep it felt like a dark fathomless pool she’d never emerge from. Because there was nothing left to do now, nothing except endure it.
Think of something happy, she told herself, something he did for you. A small thing. For a few moments nothing came. Then something did, something that had happened about this time of year. After supper her father had gone to the barn while Rachel went to the garden. In the waning light she’d gathered ripe pole beans whose dark pods nestled up to the rows of sweet corn she’d planted as trellis. Her father called from the barn mouth, and she’d set the wash pan between two rows, thinking he needed her to carry the milk pail to the springhouse.
“Pretty, isn’t it,” he’d said as she entered the barn.
Her father pointed to a large silver-green moth. For a few minutes the chores were put off as the two of them just stood there. The barn’s stripes of light grew dimmer, and the moth seemed to brighten, as if the slow open and close of its wings gathered up the evening’s last light. Then the creature rose. As the moth fluttered out into the night, her father had lifted his large strong hand and settled it on Rachel’s shoulder a moment, not turning to her as he did so. A moth at twilight, a touch of a hand on her back.
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