by
by R J S t e w a r t
Three days later, on Tuesday, the little girl was buried on the high hill northwest of the soddie. Sutton found scrap wood to make a cross. Almy had never used a brace, but Sutton told her how and she bored four holes and used bolts and nuts to fasten the pieces together so it would be sturdy. They worked together to smooth the wood and then Almy carved the inscription as carefully as she could, and Sutton helped. It read, "Viola Sutton, 1901-1907."
There was not enough wood for a burial box, so the neighbors dressed Farmer in her own clothes and wrapped the body in the only wool blanket they had.
Almy asked for the handkerchief Farmer usually wore around her neck, and she asked Maddie to tie it in her brown hair. When Maddie did, she said, "There you are, Viola. You look so pretty today." Almy turned away before her tears betrayed her hurt.
Sutton's hands were too sore to be of much use, so the Adams and Lukasiewicz men dug the grave and made it deep so the animals could not detect the odor.
When everything was ready, Almy, Maddie and Sutton gathered with the Jay Adams clan, and Jay read the Bible and made short remarks, finishing with "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He said a prayer, short for him, and he asked all present to have their own silent prayer. Almy whimpered noticeably, and Sutton squeezed her to his side.
From Then Comes a Wind . . .
From Errors of Night . . .
Dani made that painting while we sat at the edge of the grotto where the leaves of the giant bay bathed yellow in the morning sun. The other children played. He would not look at me; he was too shy. He hummed while he drew. A strange image I could not recognize lifted from the paper as he worked, and it did not matter if I did not recognize the image, because to me it was all exceptionally beautiful. I enjoyed his way of working. He heard colors, a genius. Dani was a genius. His drawing of me was not a normal child’s work but full of suggestion and meaning. I dream of the sounds associated with the various colors. It takes a dream to discover the association. When I am awake, I cannot link a certain sound with a certain color. I am not good at sounds. I have a love of silence. It takes silence to hear. Mother says the mere squeals of children, such as when they bolt into a room and find their grandmother knitting skeins of colored thread, can be delightfully complete expressions. She credits Virginia Woolf; it sounds like something she would say. Is this what Dani heard when he saw the colors? Gleeful little squeals of life?
The finished drawing is lodged in my mind, but sometimes when I am tired from a long day of work, I suspect I do not properly remember it. Then when I wake, maybe after dreaming, I see the image as I lie face up, my eyes closed against the daylight prying from behind the shutters.