Wind presses the tent's canvas. Dirt settles. The urn is gone to ground; what clung to shoes and sleeves is all that's left of the mess we made.
My mother keeps her hand on the fresh mound like it might feel her. “Hi, baby," she whispers again. “I'm here."
I kneel beside her, instinct without muscle. “I'm here too," I say, useless air.
Marcus stares at the turned earth as if it owes him an explanation. His mouth opens, closes. He can't find a place to aim the anger he carries like a wallet.
“Sit," the pastor suggests gently.
“No," Marcus says, but the word has no iron. He shifts half a step, then stops, like gravity got complicated.
Joseph stands between him and my mother out of habit and history. His jaw is purple at the hinge where Marcus's fist found it. He doesn't touch her chair
