Dad bartered his favorite horse for simple coffins. The woodworker was gracious—he helped Dad & Carter get the seven to the site, helped lower the souls, even stayed for the service. After, Tonga was tied to the man’s wagon and off they rode. Dad watched that stallion as long as he could, convinced that he was trying to look back over his shoulder, fighting the rope.
It took an hour to shovel, lay some stones, place the crosses.
When they got home, Dad sketched where the seven rested, printed their names and spoke each aloud. He dated the record and put it in the invoice drawer. Who is ever gonna see this? When he closed the thing it squeaked the length of the drawer, the bones of an old man, resisting closure. He leaned back, saw his steed still fighting that rope, and wept without making a sound.
When they got home, Dad sketched where the seven rested, printed their names and spoke each aloud. He dated the record and put it in the invoice drawer. Who is ever gonna see this? When he closed the thing it squeaked the length of the drawer, the bones of an old man, resisting closure. He leaned back, saw his steed still fighting that rope, and wept without making a sound.
