Decay curled around your outbuildings like a wild thing claiming the yard. It squatted near the hedges beneath afternoon sun. Weeds grew, metal rusted. Old plows and tractors salvaged for parts piled like corpses. The house withered, then its joints gave beneath a sway-backed roof. Vacancy, except for a dozen Mason jars glistening in the window of the summer kitchen. Three neat rows packed tight with smooth-skinned pickles, dill heads bursting like fireworks against the glass. The artistry of your skilled hands passed from your mother, her mother. Beautiful beyond blight. Your husband passed quietly in his La-Z-Boy. A month later, flames consumed it all. A backhoe buried what you couldn’t. God knows the order of things. Earth, seed, rain, and heat.
