The last grave
You are Graham. You thought you had one more grave to dig.
The shovel catches on a root. You lean your weight against it, then stop. Rain runs from your sleeve into the hole. Your father wanted to lie here, between the women he loved.
The rifle rests against the garden shed, within reach. No traffic on the interstate. No mower from the next yard. Somewhere beyond the houses, a dog howls.
Something gray moves beside the barberry bush. You reach for the rifle.
A woman stands at the corner of the house, bent beneath a coughing fit. She raises one empty hand. You watched your father struggle for breath like that this morning.
Then you see the boy behind her. He looks at the rifle, then at you. The woman tries to speak.
What do you do?