Their tombstone cants to grazing cows beyond the fence. A strange, ochre lichen mottles the stone. Last seen alive, my father commandeered his mobile chair like a riding lawnmower or miniature tractor, spurred its engine along the corridor, braked a squeak from my toes, sent me skeptical eyes, a question: “how did you get here”? Not waiting for my answer (which could have taken various directions) he tore over to the snowy lawn of cake with one-hundred candles, the happy song the waiting guests chorused for him. Just another day in the fields, almost like, then back to the house for supper.

Published On: July 1, 2018
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/070118a.htm