Eleven casserole dishes sat untouched across my kitchen counters.
Neighbors had been bringing food ever since Tom’s funeral, hoping to ease a grief that no amount of cooking could touch.
It had been three days since we laid him to rest.
That morning, I’d driven out to our northern eighty-acre field.
Tom had mowed it the Monday before his death.
He passed away the following Tuesday, and we buried him on Saturday.
I expected to see hundreds of round hay bales waiting to be brought into storage.
Instead, I found bare ground.
Deep tire marks cut across the field, and pieces of baling twine lay scattered in the grass.
Not a single bale remained.
I already had a terrible suspicion when Dwayne showed up that afternoon.
“Got that hay taken care of for you,” he said, helping himself to a seat at my kitchen table.
I stood beside the counter.
