“Sure. Probably not something to teach in an M.F.A. program, though.”

The man from the stage made a frantic motion for Cotton to move toward the signing tent, and then Cotton was gone.

Hutch and I wandered through the festival, eating the one thing you eat only at a festival: funnel cakes. With powdered sugar on our lips, we finally sat quiet and still, as if trying to capture and keep that exact moment that would surely disappear. I settled back into the haze of the afternoon and the sweet taste on my lips when Uncle Cotton found us on the bench and greeted Hutch also.

Hutch excused himself to check out the band stage, leaving Cotton and me alone. “So you’d already met Micah?” he asked.

“Yes, I went to his office.”

“Isn’t he great?” Cotton asked. “One of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met.”

“He was very nice. Yes. He has fond memories of Mother.”

“We all have good memories from those days. That’s what we do to memories—make them fonder. It was a terrible and wonderful time, but I’m sure we’ve all romanticized much of it.”

“He remembers her being sweet and fun.”

“She was. I didn’t know her well after she married my brother. You know, I see Red, but she always had an excuse to stay home. I don’t think she liked this area … .”

“Yeah, because of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“She never came here because of him—she didn’t want to see him, run into him.”

“Him? I think she just didn’t like Alabama … the memories.”

“No, it was him,” I reiterated.

“Well, she must have really grown to hate him.”

I held back my words—this was Dad’s brother, and Dad was a man whom I would never want to cause pain. “Maybe.”

“Well, I need to go visit Red. I bet he’s in a bad way without your mother.”

“I feel terrible that I left, but I’ve talked to him every day. You know, he has so many friends, and the ‘casserole brigade’ has descended on the house, bringing him dinners. Every single woman from Atlanta to Birmingham has stopped by to offer her condolences. I know he feels lost and lonely, though.”

Uncle Cotton looked away and then at me. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is. And it’s not always to death. You know, I was listening to you talk about the way you write—without much planning and so forth—and I realize how different that is than the way Mother taught me, in the way Mother lived her life—she was such a planner.”