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 had planted along the road are now twenty years old, the water that flows in the ditch still a couple of hours from its source.

You might see a scarecrow in the fields if the sharecroppers had planted corn and the weathervane of the abandoned Baptist Church in the hollows beyond. The Good Lord has 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, You don’t have to watch the road; there won’t be much traffic. Do you see hay rolls soaking in the rain like drifting cattle, Paddocks empty of horses and rain barreling into red mud?

….

You must have come to the house by now; it stands 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 on the road After you left. Later I had to put a bullet through his head after Jim Ran over him. He was like the son you wanted us to have.

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

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

I had blasted the beaver dam downstream and the pool drained away. The dogwoods still are there though, in the same old arc Around whose circumference we swam. Find the trowel I hid in our tree hollow, into which we shouted our names, To add another ring of marriage to our together sound.

If you don’t find it, use a rusted can or use your hands to dig the ground. But don’t bring a spade; I don’t want anything from where you come, Except you to enter this place. I know it can take long but you have waited too long . Two feet below, at the base of that flute like tree, you will hit a Thelma’s Cookies box . Open it and release your letters.

That is how I buried you.