sunset
the baptismal font
empty

Grandpa calls it his lawn, but the old red wagon, full of freshly rinsed bottles and jars, dips into the ruts left by his tractor. His pint of whiskey now clinks against a canning jar that cracked when Grandpa tried to reach for the last spoonful of Grandma’s strawberry preserves.

We stop at the row of Osage Orange, at a rock now used for breaking glass. Last year, the wagon was full of colored Easter grass, and Grandma and I found the winning egg here.