tobacco

He smells like tobacco, even in that box. It’s wafting from his pores, fumigating the already cramped space.

‘No he doesn’t, he smells like embalming fluid.’

That’s my sister, don’t listen to her. She couldn’t smell her way to the horse stalls at the rodeo.

‘Hush, ma will hear you.’

Let her. Since when does she listen to me, anyway?

‘Ok, Little Prince.’

Don’t roll your eyes at me. It’s just a stupid nickname, I’m not a kid anymore, not by a long shot.

‘Really? Since when do you smoke.’

What better time to start, than right outside your father’s funeral?

‘Stop, put it away. Let’s go down to the river, at least.’

The river, is it still there? I guess rivers don’t pack up and move.

‘They dry out.’

It looks the same. Why does it look the same? Everything else has changed. The post office, the bank, there is even a stoplight, connecting the two.

‘It hasn’t changed much. The light, some paint.’

We used to fish here, my sister and I. She never caught anything -

‘We never caught anything.’

- but you’d never guess, the way that she smiled all the way home.

‘It wasn’t about catching.’

I hated that smile, or he did, and I was responsible for his moods. That’s why, whenever I finished at the river and she started to skip ahead of me, I told her to fold the grin into a triangle and hide it inside the pocket stuck to the front of her overalls - quick before our feet hit the porch.

‘Is that why?’

You learn these things, you learn them and you teach them. Not directly, you don’t say it out loud. You have to use hints, obvious hints.

‘Why should they be obvious? To me, your anger was the same as his.’

Little sisters don’t know wisdom received, not until much later.

‘The wisdom of the bottle?’

That’s not my fault. I didn’t tell you to drive.

‘Not that night.’

Not any night.

‘Say it again.’

A fish jumps out of the water. It’s not barren, after all. In all those childhood years, my sister and I never saw any fish and that’s why I decided that there weren’t any to begin with.

‘Shut up!’ But the stone on my left is empty and sun dried. Further up the hill, between the trees, the church smells of mould. Grass grows up through the floorboards and out through the punctured glass windows. The white paint is chipped and mostly gone.

Somewhere further up the hill, buried in ivy and regret, there is a row of stone tablets and in front of those tablets is a hole in the ground.

Soon, when the sky turns purple and my jaw hurts and there is an ache behind my eyes, I’ll go and lie in that hole. I’ll look up and between the branches I’ll see the hint of stars or maybe there will be clouds. I’ll count backwards, hum a lullaby, flex my toes and then my calves and work that way all up to my ears. But there aren’t enough sleep incantations, no rest will come, only fog and the occasional fox.

In the morning I’ll climb out with the sun and smack my coat and trousers to puff away the dust. I’ll straighten my back and admire the bright white of the chapel. The pews will be lined with tulips, bundled together with brownish twine. A velvet runner will cover the centre aisle and when my muddy boot touches it, the organ will begin to play Ave Maria.

There will be a box at the front, surrounded by candles. I’ll sit in the back row, a safe distance from the box. And on my right will be an old man in a straw hat, who smells like tobacco.

‘It’s your fault,’ he’ll say. ‘You was all she had.’

But he doesn’t know anything about fault.

‘It’s you who went away, with her heart in your pocket.’

My pockets are cut square, wait - I’ll turn them out so you can see.

‘Listen, boy -’

The clap of my palm on his cheek will fill the space left by the organ going limp. There will be backs of heads and whispering hems, even the old man won’t let me get a look at his face.

I’ll stand on the velvet and wring my hat, but before I can speak the brittle brown grass will hiss up through the floorboards and chase me out.

I’ll stumble into the cemetery, I’ll throw the hat and spit at the wind, then I’ll climb back down the hole and flex my toes. My calves. Thighs, belly, fingers.

When my ears sag back into place I’ll look up and search for stars to count and there won’t be any. Because the sky will still be a diluted blue, and it won’t be time to sleep.

But when I give up, when I rock forward to climb back to the light, my shirt will catch on a nail. There will be a wooden box all around the bottom of the hole, a plain wooden box that covers my legs up to the belt. I’ll jerk the snagged arm and the dirt wall will shift, a lid will come loose and snap shut over the rest of me.

Then you won’t see my face, ever again. You will lever the shovel and sling it towards the hole, over and over and over. Until the your back is wet and the dirt is flush to the grass.

But I’ll still down be here, alone in the dark, with nothing but my thoughts and the smell of tobacco wafting from my pores.

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