And so I had, in this room where I had emptied bedpans and urinals instead of drawers, lifted pain pills and cough syrup to his mouth and what food and liquid he could swallow, bathed him with a sponge and washtub and afterward rubbed Desitin into his skin. The window is open, as it has been most of the last week, but the smell of stale sweat and urine lingers.

Only a portion of what’s in the drawers is worth giving to Goodwill. Some jeans and work pants, some blue socks and a white dress shirt still wrapped in cellophane, two sweaters, a couple of belts. That’s it. The T-shirts stained gray with sweat, socks and overalls frayed at heels and knees, underwear and handkerchiefs—all these will be put in a dumpster.

I carry the two boxes out to the car. I shove them into the backseat, turn and gaze across the pasture to Damascus Pentecostal Church, the snaggled rows of stone rising beside it. The grave is easy to spot, an unseasonable blossom of flowers set among a swell of black dirt. A grave dug by Joel and Billy, because, as Wanda Watson once reminded me, “we take care of our own up here.”

I hear a crackling of gravel and see Aunt Margaret walking up the drive, one hand clutching a shawl around her neck, in the other a dead man’s mail.

“You need something besides a T-shirt on, girl,” she says. “It’s October, not July.”

I nod at the house.

“I’ve been inside. Anyway, filling and hauling these boxes is enough work to keep me warm.”

Aunt Margaret hands me the mail.

“Nothing but advertisements far as I can tell,” she says, as I stuff it in the pocket of my jeans. “I got my chores done, so thought I might could help you.”

“I’m about done,” I say. “One more box load and I’ll be on my way.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not before Thanksgiving. I’ve got some serious catching up to do at work.”

Aunt Margaret meets my eyes. “What about in the romance department? You got some catching up there as well?”

“Maybe,” I say, smiling. “Let’s just say I still like the smell of him.”

She smiles too. “That’s more than just some old wives’ tale, girl. There’s a whole lot of worse ways to measure a man.”

Aunt Margaret looks at the house and lets her gaze linger a few moments. I wonder if, like me, it seems somehow different now. When she turns back to me, tears dampen her cheeks.

“I’ll say my goodbye now,” she says, “so you can say your own.”