Chapter 21: Laundress

We buried my mother on the first Saturday of March, in the cemetery behind the Lutheran church where her parents lay.

The ground had thawed enough for the gravediggers to open a space the size of a bread box.

Nine of us stood in the wet grass.

Bev wore a black coat over her cardigan and held an umbrella over the pastor.

Six women from the firm stood together with their hands folded, and the oldest of them was crying already.

Lowell stood a half step behind me, in his dark suit, with his hat in his hands.

I held the blue box against my ribs.

I had carried it for six years, from the hall closet to a shelf to a bed and a car and a stranger's house.

It was heavier than a box that size should be.

"Helen Tolbert," the pastor said. "Beloved mother."

"Her friends called her Lennie," I said. "Nobody called her Helen unless she was in trouble."

A few people laughed.

The pastor smiled and let it go.

"We commit her to the ground," he said. "Her daughter has waited a long time to bring her home."

I knelt on the wet grass and set the box in the earth with both hands.

It went down easily.

I had thought it would be harder.

"I'm sorry it took so long, Mom," I said. "I read your letters."

I kept my voice low, because the others could hear.

"I'm back at school. I'm terrible at it. I'm the oldest one in the room by twenty years, and my feet hurt, and I love every minute."

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