Everyone tells stories around here. Every place, every person has a ring of
stories around them, a halo almost. People have told me tales ever since I was a tiny girl squatting in the front dooryard, in mud-caked overalls, digging for doodlebugs. They have talked to me, and talked to me. some I've forgotten, but most I remember. And so my memory goes back before my birth.
These were our monuments, the physical signs of our passing, in the color of the door, in the screw holes and the edge marks of our sign. They held the shadow of us. Our ghosts lingered at this corner.
Our children grow old and elbow us into the grave.
Some people you can't comfort. You can only go along with their pretending and pretend yourself.
I wonder now what it was like living for four years, not wanting to, only waiting for your hold to weaken so you could finish up and leave.