What thou lovest well remains
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft
from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy
true heritage...
—Ezra Pound, Canto LXXXI
I loved my mother very much. After her funeral, after the coffin was lowered, thefamily went home and waited for her return.
I was only eight at the time. Of the required ceremony I remember little. I recall thatthe collar of the previous year's shirt was far too tight and that the unaccustomed tiewas like a noose around my neck. I remember that the June day was too beautiful forsuch a solemn gathering. I remember Uncle Will's heavy drinking that morning andthe bottle of Jack Daniels he pulled out as we drove home from the funeral. Iremember my father's face.
The afternoon was too long. I had no role to play in the family's gathering that day, and the adults ignored me. I found myself wandering from room to room with a warm glass of Kool-Aid, until finally I escaped to the backyard. Even that familiar landscape of play and seclusion was ruined by the glimpse of pale, fat faces staring out from the neighbor's windows. They were waiting. Hoping for a glimpse. I felt like shouting, throwing rocks at them. Instead I sat down on the old tractor tire we used as a sandbox.
Very deliberately I poured the red Kool-Aid into the sand and watched the spreading stain digging a small pit.
They're digging her up now.
I ran to the swing set and angrily began to pump my legs against the bare soil. The swing creaked with rust, and one leg of the frame rose out of the ground.
No, they've already done that, stupid. Now they're hooking her up to big machines. Will they pump the blood back into her?
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