The Burial

He looked at the swamps and the tall grass along U.S. 20. Cones in the middle of the road; sign saying, End Of Roadwork.

The bushes had grown wild along the roadway. Limbs needed to be cut. More orange cones. Men in hard hats and neon vests directing traffic. Another End Of Roadwork sign.

He turned onto 35 South. Two lane blacktop. Houses on both sides of the highway. His Dodge picked up speed. He could hear her body bouncing in the trunk next to the shovel and the gasoline container. It kept making a thud sound. It’d be awhile till sundown; awhile till he could adjust it.

The old man lit a cigarette and played a whispering Bill Anderson tape. That was one of her favorites. Played a Charlie Rich cassette as well. She loved the silver fox.

He thought about her when she was younger. Back when she had blonde hair. ‘Fore the cancer took over. He could remember when she came home from the doctor with the news; first in her thyroid then it spread throughout the body. That’s when she told him, Kill me. Please kill me, he stared off into the clouds as the car kind of drove itself.

And, he did what she asked. Made up a cocktail of different drugs. She shot em back with a glass of whiskey. He poured her another. Then she fell asleep and never woke up. She was gone.

The old man noticed the speed limit was 45. He abided. The body quit bouncing as much. Soon he’d be digging her grave. That’s what she wanted. And that’s what he did. Right out there in the woods on her grand dad’s old property. That’s where she felt most at peace. That’s what they both wanted; was peace at her burial.

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