The memories want to roar in and through me, his idiosyncrasies, his moody, stubborn temperament, the rough words, the kind words, the passage of days that ran into each other like smears of rain.
Shock or exhaustion or heat or futility of motion, an empty house ahead, a bleeding out of grief.
And who is this, following? I hear the steps, hidden somewhere in the low corn, rustling, and footsteps in the dirt, so careful but so ignoble because they’re meant to be heard. Even the crows have lost their sheen, cautious, ever cautious of an interruption to their deeds.