Harvest

My grandfather drives by his fields. If a sunflower or volunteer corn sticks up from the beans, he pulls the car over, troops out, and cuts it down. Always in his pocket: a knife and a rosary.

Now, my uncle James -- my great-uncle, eighty years a farmer -- was buried this week. For his coffin spray they had ears of corn and sheaves of wheat, wild carrot, chickory, red sumach, and sunflowers.

My grandfather says, squinting with humour (I see him though I wasn't there): "You're not telling me you got those sunflowers out of James's beans."

"No," allows a niece. "We had to go to the next ditch for those."

I miss these people.... Too far from home.