This is what our wandering life has come to.Our dead stay where theyâ€™re put, in different states.We buried her beside the Texan, whoalso loved her. Then we closed the gates.None of us will join her. Thereâ€™s the spotthey dug for hours to slide my brother in.He lies beside my father in her plotâ€”or what was hers onceâ€”beneath Nebraska sun.In Philadelphia, now, I will not raveor overstate my grief. I wonâ€™t fly with flowersto grace their level markers. Iâ€™m not brave.Our familyâ€™s scattered. Will be. Nothingâ€™s surer.Who is she, elbow cocked against the sun,waving to me this morning on the lawn?
Wendell Berry on abortion and homosexuality, Daniel Schultz on gun control, Suzanne Guthrie on praying at a monastery.
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