Her bible is sitting on my desk. One of many my mother studied. There’s a pair of black-handled scissors laying across it, and a postcard for one of my books. The one book I’ve written that Mama never read. She died before I wrote a single word of it.
One of my kin told me recently that she didn’t like the way we buried Mama. Said it bothered her that I had just poured Mama’s ashes into the hole instead of putting them into an urn and placing that in the ground.
I called Sister Tater and asked her if it had bothered her, the way we’d done it. She said she hadn’t really thought about it. I guess I hadn’t either. It’s not like I knew the protocol for burying a mother, given I’d never done it before.