Turn right where the Wheeler Road forks, Follow the road that runs along the Pickle Creek You might remember this but I want to be sure. The red oaks we planted along the road are now Twenty years old, the water still a couple of hours at most.

You might see a scarecrow in the fields if they had planted corn and the weathervane of the Baptist Church in the hollows beyond. The Good Lord had gone on to the city, taking with Him The whole congregation, even that bum, Toby.

Keep going, you have two more rises to climb You can look out of the window now, once in a while, Don’t have to watch the road much, there won’t be much traffic. Do you see hay rolls soaking in the rain like drifting cattle? Since the paddocks are empty of horses now, the rain falls on the red mud.

You must see the house by now, standing where the creek curves. Is it still shedding bleached rafters? Do you see a doghouse, Spit written above it in cursive?. I found Spit down the road After you left, I had to put a bullet through his head after Jim Ran over him. He was like the son we were meant to have.

Don’t dawdle around too much, it will be sad and you have work to do. The last time I was there the whole front porch was covered with blue glass, someone tore open the mesh and broke our empty bottles of Riesling. I might enclose the brass key if I find it, I never did change the locks.

It will be dark soon and you have to walk down the creek. Cottonmouths still hunt along the banks, so be careful, Better bring some rubber boots, they quarried the creek bed. It flows deeper now and I won’t be there to catch you if you slip. Walk half a mile, to get to what was the Dogwood pool.

I blasted the beaver dam downstream and the pool went with it. The dogwoods still are there though in an arc Around whose circumference we swam. Find the spike I hid in our tree hollow, into which we shouted our names, As if to add another ring of marriage to our together sound.

Use your hands or use a rusted nail if you don’t find it, Don’t take a spade, I don’t want anything from where you come To enter there. I know it can take long but you waited long too Two feet below you will hit a box, one of Thelma’s cookie boxes. Open it and release your letters, if you want.

That is how I buried you.

for my daughter

Here, I leave you. There are tins of water enough to keep you for a little while, dried meat and biscuits by the pantry door. Usually, the mice stay pretty quiet.

The view's not bad. Those are my favorite hills, covered with pines. On a clear April day you can see small paths among the boulders, maybe an eagle if you're looking hard.

Try to remember that the telephone is only for emergencies—may they be few. Keep the doorsill swept. You can never tell who will come riding up from the valley.

These are my books, a motley varied lot, some too much read, some not much read at all. If you want, replace them with your own, or use the shelves for toys and flower vases.

You're going to be on your own—sometimes for months on end. I've found it helps to whistle frequently or make out lists of foods you love and states you've traveled in.

The pump is just outside. The clothesline holds two weeks of laundry if you're planning things. Fasten garbage lids on tight. Little devils come from the woods to forage every night.

I hope you like the sound of mountain streams, by my count three. But I suspect a fourth is somewhere out there. Every spring I think I hear it flowing through the dark.

You might listen for it, too. But now I've said enough, it's yours. And don't forget I've left you butter in the blue and silver dish and stubs and stalks of candles you may light.

[1] After taking my hands in hers, she thought a while before she spoke my name As if this were a protocol she had read about, in some book somewhere.

Some relationships are better left inside closed books.

[2] To know what love tastes like, It is essential that it stays alive.

Till date, none have survived.

[3] The river moves on, pulling behind it a glassy blanket As if it is trying to wake up someone who is fast asleep.

The drowned are never left in peace.

[4] Masks are being distributed in the streets, Select your latest assassin with care.

It’s election time again.