Toward the Vanishing Point

"I know how you feel about your granny and grampa, bless 'em through the roof of heaven, Noah, but why on such an absolutely arctic day? If I slip and fall, I'll slide all the way down the hill into that fence, and it made of iron and all, so if I get any lift I could land right there on a spike and be spitted like a chicken."

"Because, Betty," said Noah, looking up the hill at the headstones and clutching his bouquet of hellebores, hyacinths, and tulips tightly to his chest so as almost to crush them, "Because it's on days like this...it's on days like this that I miss 'em the most."

"I wouldn't cry if I was you," said Betty. “You'll freeze your eyeballs."

They had to kick their way up the hill step by step to keep a purchase on the crusty snow. When they reached the twin headstones, Noah cried anyway.

"Here lies Ma Bertie," he said, placing the flowers, "and here Daddy Mac. And no matter how I miss you, you aren’t ever comin' back."

From the woods beyond the cemetery, a crow cawed and then flew out toward them and low over them, cawing all the way.

Betty ducked. Noah just stood there, eyes on the bird till it was only a black dot and then nothing.

“It’s like it was laughing at us,” he said.

“Mhm,” agreed Betty. “Still, it’s only a crow. No flowers for it when it dies.”

“Right. No flowers for you!” he shouted into the sky, toward the vanishing point.

20 February 2025
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia