Glen had died at his sister’s place of pneumonia. I asked to see his grave. His sister, Phyllis, told me to come over. She would show it to me.
We walked a path on her farm to a little hill, probably an Indian mound. A little dug up place showed where he was buried. There were white tulips on it, florist flowers. “People who remember leave things,” she told me.
We retraced our steps. It was cloudy and turning cold. The kind of weather Glen liked, I told her.
“He don’t care now,” was all she said.
I looked back and noticed the trees ringing his grave. They were mostly oaks. As if to remind us of his beloved Oak Street Bible Shop.
- Gerald Franz, The Last Robin