Free In Open Spaces by Russell Rowland

day before. I hadn’t even bothered to clean out the trinkets before I doused it in fuel and held a match in it.
    I thought about my brother, and realized to my horror that I had held some hope that he would show up again someday. Part of me hadn’t allowed myself to accept that he was gone. I pictured him in the barn. I thought of how he loved lingering there after we’d unsaddled the horses, telling jokes or wrestling in a pile of straw. I thought about him lacing a single to right. And as I thought about these things and looked at the faces around me, I realized for the first time in my young life that there was something behind those stoic expressions. I looked at the people there and realized that there was only one family among them that had not lost a child. The Purdys, who didn’t have children. The Glassers had just buried their baby that morning. And I saw in the eyes of these people a sympathy that only someone who shared their experience could see. I had never seen the pain because I had never felt it. I was now part of the community. I was one of them.
    And I realized that despite the fact that our homes were so far apart, the open space between us was much smaller than I had always assumed.
    I stayed and watched while Gary Glasser, Art Walters, and others lowered the coffins into the graves. The holes bookended the graves of my grandparents.
    Dad stepped forward, reaching for a shovel.
    “George, goddamit, we’ll take care of this,” Gary said. “Did I help you bury my granddaughter? You stubborn old bastard. We got it.”
    Dad backed up, still watching our friends. He stood next to me, hands behind his back, jaw set. I studied him, his narrow face drooping, blue eyes squinting and moist.
    Looking at his face, I wondered what could be worse than outliving two of your own children, watching the earth swallow them up when your own body was still strong, healthy, and full of life.
    “You coming?” Suddenly Dad’s arm fell heavily across my shoulders.
    “Nah, I’ll be along in a second,” I said.
    I watched him walk away, his eyes lowered to his boots. Three men shoveled dirt, heavy scoops of soil thumping against wood. I stood between the graves, digging through my jacket. The smell of damp soil filled my nose. I gazed at the open pits, and before I turned to join the rest of my family, I dropped a fishhook into Katie’s grave, and the piece of chalk into George’s.

3
winter 1918
    I opened one eye, feeling the cold air against my eyeball, wishing dawn would put off its arrival just a little longer. I pulled the blankets tighter around my ear, which was numb. A still, warm body lay next to me, and I knew that Bob had crawled into my bed again to get relief from the cold. A square of dim sunlight broke the frozen air, casting a faint glow into the sparcely furnished bedroom. I heard animated voices and smelled bacon and coffee, and after savoring a few last moments of relative warmth, I crept from my bed, adjusted my union suit, and dressed.
    When I entered the kitchen, the conversation between my parents stopped. Mom sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She was bundled in her coat and hat, having just come in from the milking. Dad scrambled eggs in our iron skillet. I immediately knew two things—they had been fighting, and Dad was the one who wasangry. It was the only time he cooked. I winced as I sat, thinking about his undercooked eggs, with glistening slugs of whites oozing between what managed to get cooked.
    “Mornin’,” I said.
    “Morning, son,” Mom answered.
    Dad didn’t say a word. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the saucepan on the stove and stood with my back to the heat. Outside, the snow fell steadily, as it had for a week—soft flakes the size of downy feathers.
    The next several minutes were silent aside from the simmering eggs. I finally decided to prompt whatever discussion I’d interrupted and leave it to them to tell me to mind my own