His aunts sat together very near the front of the church, just behind the mourners’ bench, over near the church mothers, near his Great-Aunt Jonnie Mae, who though stolid, stolidly sang the song:

Lord let me walk

each day with thee

She, as frightening as his grandfather, had been the one to quiz him about his schooling each week; she, who knit him multicolored sweaters and socks and toboggans and scarves, who made his favorite pecan pies when he made A-pluses, and who would verbally chastise him when he made less than a B on any of his tests, all of which he had to report to her; she lectured him about his family’s struggles all these years and his responsibility to that family; she, large, dark, quiet, but who laughed, when she laughed, in a hearty, heartfelt tone; she, who gave him a dollar to rake her yard in the fall and who took him with her to pick blueberries and who told him tales of his great-grandfather’s adventures after slavery and how he came to Tims Creek; she who died last year, the mother of his aunts.

Rachel. Rebecca. Ruthester. His Aunt Rachel was his favorite. Her skin was cinnamon and ginger. She had a rebellious spirit, uncensored and harsh. Whatever came to her mind, she said; whatever she felt, she expressed. She was the youngest. Aunt Rebecca was dark, the color of coffee without cream. She was the oldest and the most like her mother. Aunt Ruthester was a color between the two, a teak, a honey color. She was the emotional one, prone to cry and rail, easily swayed, kind and soft. They sat together, there before Horace, dressed in tailored tweed jackets, lushly printed dresses, bright hats, gloves. They rocked with the music.

Looking at them, here, with their mother, his grandmother, his grandfather just across the way, surrounded by the rhythms and beats of his childhood, he remembered the day his grandmother died. It had been during school, when he was in the fourth grade. His Aunt Rachel came to take him from class. They walked down the high hallway to the cafeteria where his other two aunts sat, huddled in that high empty space. She held his hand. Their footsteps echoed, her womanly heels clicking, his small feet scuffling and imprecise.

Ruthester was sobbing, raggedly breathing, staring out at the tall windows streaked with spring rain. “Lord, she’s gone. She’s gone.” She sat rocking like a child alone.

Rebecca and Rachel exchanged a glance. Rebecca, whose eyes were damp, was not crying. She rolled her eyes and looked away. Rachel sighed and moved to her weeping sister, patting her back and speaking in low, comforting tones. Rebecca motioned to Horace with her finger. She hoisted him up on her lap and raised her head to speak, looking down at him. She wore half-rimmed silver glasses that hung below her neck, resting on her bosom.