The new preacher offered the standard condolences and took a seat on the old sofa across from the middle-aged woman.

“I know this is difficult but I could use your help with the eulogy. I don’t know if you’re aware but your Momma’s pastor for the last fifteen years passed away a few months ago and because of her health, I never got to know her well. I was hoping you could tell me something about her.”

The woman tugged at the sleeves of her blouse and leaned back in her chair, her expression mixed with discomfort and disinterest. “Momma wasn’t close to her kids. We all disappointed her. I can’t tell you much.”

He nodded, “I understand. Family’s hard. Just tell me what you can.”

“She was born at home, a shack up there in the hills. They called her Tinny as a child. In school, she was Tina, then she was Momma for awhile. When she got older, folks round here started calling her Aunt Tinny and strangers called her Mrs. Bradford. Finally, they just started calling her “the patient in room 138.”

The wet snores of the dog at his feet bounced about the room -  from ceiling to floor, from wall to wall, from door to window.  The rasping fits and spurts brought a degree of comfort. That at least, for a time, as the night aged, nothing terrible was pending - no bumps in the night, no monsters under the bed, no midnight knocks at the door. All is well when the dog snores.

The early darkness of December and the thickness of the forest had nearly consumed any light when the Widow approached the group of women. She walked slowly and stopped before reaching them, a small bundle in her hands, her eyes distant, her silence disconcerting.

The stout lady spoke, a slight irritation in her voice. “Well, did you find her?”
​
I watched as the Widow gathered herself and seemed to look beyond the women into the darkness. She nodded. “She’s dead.”

There was no gasp, no hands to the mouth, no tears. The women’s expressions were masked by the darkness, but most turned their heads to the ground as they stood in silence.
​
The Widow walked forward and unwrapped the bundle in her arms. The baby was silent and still.

When he was a younger man, he had one hope for old age - that things would be settled. That he could face infirmity with a peaceful mind. Now that he was old, it was assumed that he had all the attributes of an old man.  Wisdom and peace tempered by aches and pains - anger and desperation. All things that come with a long knowledge of the world. Now his dreams came folded and spindled in fits and spurts - full of gaps.
​
When we become old men, we seek our youth; things that are lost to us. We dream of our childhood - forgetting the pain of little boys.

 I think most are in love with the idea of being a writer but not the writing itself. It is a hard thing to love. We love the attention, the possible acclaim, and certainly the idea of being paid. I suppose that is why there is such bad writing today.

To produce a work of substance, you have to be a storyteller; you have to love the words and the pictures they paint. Everything else must be of little consequence.
​
Unfortunately, getting published often depends on who you are, your tribe, your conformity to the mold cast by those who profit. If you begin your story with the idea of making money, you’ve lost. If you write solely for profit, well, let’s just say there are easier ways to make a living. 

We fired our guns and decided it was best to wait for the others to get there ‘fore we started trampling through them woods. When they showed up, we figured a few of us would stay on the road and keep an eye out in case we flushed anybody out of there and the rest of us scattered across them heavy woods and thickets. We was about two hundred yards into the trees when the creek curved back toward us.

​We could see where the horses came through and saw some tracks of people walking- appeared like they was walking in front of them horses. We looked down that creek bank and there they were. A man and a woman – stripped naked, laying in the shallow water of that creek. They was abused and their bodies was in such a state that it ain’t fittin to describe ‘em to a woman.
​

,​I’m still on speaking terms with the young man I once was. We’ve always nodded in passing but as the years advance, our conversations have become more frequent.  They have become clearer and more concise even though at times they end in little more than nods and grunts of agreement or dissension – he with downturned mouth and mild disappointment and me, myself with a gleam of distant satisfaction that he can’t yet understand.

I always watched to see if she was happy. The more I tried to make her happy, the more respect she lost for me. I told myself - if she was happy, I was happy. It wasn't true but I kept at it till we were both miserable. The only thing I learned from it; you can't make somebody happy if they don't know how to do such a thing.