1987

I found out about father on the day we buried my grandmother. I probably never would've known if it hadn't been for Simpson Borden. I was staring at my grandmother's grave after the funeral when his voice startled me out of my trance.

"I'm real sorry 'bout your grandma, Mark."

He was the brother of my dad's oldest friend, George. I shook his offered hand.

"Thanks, Mr. Simpson."

"She'as a fine lady, son."

"Yessir, she w….." My throat choked the words off as my eyes welled up.

"How ya been doin?" I finally asked him

"Pretty good." He had a worn-out smile. "Seems like I spend all muh time at funerals now, though."

He looked around the tiny, oak and elm filled country cemetery.

"Where's ya daddy? Thought I saw him a few minutes ago."

I looked around also and grinned when I didn't see him.

"You know how dad is, with crowds and all."

"Oh, yea, I know."

"Especially, doesn't like funerals."

"Well, ya can't blame him, son. Started learnin' 'bout 'em awful young. He'as only 'bout six, just a couple of years younger than ya Aunt Ellie when she died."

He smiled and his eyes got glassy as the memory of my Aunt become clearer in his mind.

"Ya know we were tha same age, went ta school together. I can still see her right now. Prettiest little thing ya ever seen. No bigger'n a minute."

He chuckled, my Aunt's memory seeming to warm him.

"I remember one time ole Billy Tacker. He'as a good year or so older and a whole lot bigger than Ellie or me either one. He pulled one'a her pigtails one day, ya know ya grandma always had her in pigtails. She let out a scream 'at sounded like a wild In'jun or somethin'. Next thing I knew, she had Billy on tha ground and 'fore anyone could get her off, she bloodied his nose and knocked out one a his front teeth."

His grin sort of remained, but his eyes changed, and he said, "Then she just got sick one day and I never saw her no more."

He ran his hand through his eye then said, "Yea, ya daddy learned about people dyin' awful young."

He looked down at the marker for my dad's brother, James, and nodded at it.

"And, I'll tell ya, it was a bad time all around when James died," Then he almost whispered, "I swear, it sure don't seem like fifty years ago."

We both were silent for a moment.

"I don't know much about him." I finally said.

"He'as a good boy. Was set to be a good man. Was gonna make something of hisself for sure. Was gonna go to University. Never got the chance, though. Ya know ya daddy and him were almost dead ringers for each other."

"I've seen pictures of him. Looked alot alike."

"Course that's good and bad. Might still be alive if he hadn't. Looked like him, that is. But, then...…, well, I guess it worked out like it was supposed to. God don't make mistakes, ya know."

"No, sir he doesn't......... Was my uncle murdered?"

The question came out before I realized I was even going to ask it. I'd asked ones in my family, but never got a straight answer. All I ever knew was that he'd been killed when he was eighteen. 

"Ya, mean nobody's ever told ya what happened?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I'll be," he said, head down. Then he smiled. "Ya know that sounds about like ya daddy. Never was one to volunteer information."

He hesitated a minute then said, "Tell ya what, if ya got some time let's go over there."

He pointed to two cast iron chairs not far away under an old oak. I followed him and we sat down. He took a few minutes to gather his thoughts.

As he did this, I looked out from the cemetery and across the cotton fields toward the Ridge over a mile away. The trees on its slopes swayed in the early September wind, signaling the coming of fall. Then in what seemed an instant, the wind broke the stillness at the cemetery, hitting us with the remnants of a searing summer.

It washed over me heating my skin briefly before rushing up into the trees. It left me just as quickly chilled. And as I imagined the whisper of the leaves rustling on the Ridge, the old man began telling me a story.