Pop-Pop’s voice is calm, reassuring. I slow down enough so he can keep up, and we move farther into the cemetery, past a cluster of pink- and red-blooming crape myrtle trees. I try to block out the angry voices behind us as Dad and Nonny go at it.

“This isn’t about you, Biscuit.” Pop-Pop hums a little song like we’re out for any old stroll. “Just so you know.”

I know there’s a lot going on here. Nonny disapproving that Dad and I didn’t bring flowers to put on Mom’s grave. Dad wanting so bad to tell Nonny to mind her own business about how we choose to grieve. They used to get along okay when Mom was still alive, but that’s all long gone. Dad hates being told what to do so much he’d rather cut off his own foot than wear a shoe someone else picked for him. Like me, I guess.

Sometimes I think, under all those critical frowns and forced family dinners, Nonny’s bone-deep scared we’re going to forget Mom if she doesn’t keep reminding us.

“I hate when they fight,” I finally say.

“Me too.” Pop-Pop sighs. “Grief can hurt twice, Biscuit. Hurts the one feeling it, always. Then sometimes folks board it up instead of looking it in the face—then it hurts everyone the second time around when it comes crashing out. Even people we love most. Especially them.”

I don’t say anything, but the smooth pavement under my wheels is soothing, and Pop-Pop’s words make a weird kind of sense. I guess I’m not the only one in this family who goes for evasive action sometimes.

Not sure it’s working so well for any of us these days.

17

Sewing (and Preconceived) Notions

I spend Saturday morning filling orders and making more bags. The sassy ones have turned into my top sellers, so the embroidery function on my sewing machine—and my shaky lettering skills—gets a good workout as I whip up a half dozen more.

By lunchtime, I’ve accidentally stitched my fingers twice, but the red in my wall thermometer has climbed another forty-six dollars. I’ve also run out of red, blue, and purple thread, so I get Dad to drive me the six miles from our place to the Dollar General.

“I’ll grab you in half an hour, Emms,” he calls as he pulls away. We haven’t mentioned his dustup with Nonny yesterday.

We live way out, so shopping is a relative term—on one side of the county road is the hair salon and an exterminator. The other side has the Dollar General and the hardware store. Because Dad’s a creature of habit, I know he’ll go get his hair cut, grab an iced tea at the gas station, and hang out at the hardware store for fifteen minutes before he collects me.

I wave goodbye and roll toward the Dollar General, which sits in what used to be a cow pasture and looks a little strange with other fields—and cows—still all bunched up close around it. Strange or not, it’s nice not to have to drive twenty miles to get some groceries anymore, and I can get a lot of the basic stuff I need for my bags right here. They have an okay selection of fabrics, ribbons, and some sewing supplies. There’s also the big, smooth parking lot with low, concrete parking dividers—of course, I can’t resist a few pops and hops.