Mama Suther had that picture framed and kept it on the mantel in her living room. We fell into the habit of having Sunday dinners over at her house. Most times I cooked, and rarely a Sunday played itself out without my mother-in-law reminding me or Jim that she wanted the picture of Francis buried with her. I thought it very moving at first, and even tried writing a poem from the viewpoint of the photograph. But after a while it got tiresome, especially in light of how upset Jim got every time.

Last spring, Ryder visited. The drive up through New York City thrilled him so much, he talked Jimmy and me into driving down for a long weekend, Leo too. It was a wonderful trip! Ride is coming up again this week from North Carolina. He’s been living there the last six months, working in one of those cigarette factories in Winston-Salem. He wrote us that he’s been playing his harmonica with a Negro blues band out in some small town in the woods. It’ll do Jimmy good to see him. Ryder says he’s going to talk us into another excursion to the city, but he hasn’t seen me as I am now.

I hear my little boy walking down the hall from his nap. It’s warm for a New England day in March. The sun is high and I hear all those birds in the trees outside. I think I’ll bundle him up and see if I can’t work up the strength for a walk to the river.

Leo turned the page, but the next one was blank. And the next, and the next, for the rest of the notebook. He stood up, then he sat back down. He stared at the floorboards. He didn’t remember any of these things his mother had written about. He thought he should remember some of that talk with her in the bathroom, but he didn’t. All there was in his head were a few shadow pictures of her pretty face looking at him, or laughing at something Jim had said or done.

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