One Mountain Away by Emilie Richards

to my father, who wears a clean shirt and pants and is, for once, freshly shaved. Even Hearty Hale realized he had to show up at his mother-in-law’s funeral or risk losing whatever shred of credibility is still attached to his name.
    Do not get up, I mouth.
    He narrows his eyes, as if trying to make sense of that. I realize saying something about Gran has never occurred to him.
    From behind us a neighbor stands and begins to speak, detailing the kindness my grandmother showed his family, the food she brought when his wife was sick, little gifts for his children when Gran could hardly afford bacon and beans. Someone else remembers how hard she worked and the way she held her little family together after her husband died, even giving her son-in-law and granddaughter a place to live. The unspoken message, of course, is that anybody who put up with Hearty all those years is already sitting at the feet of the Lord.
    I know my grandmother earned her neighbors’ respect one thoughtful act at a time. I also know that now that Gran has finally succumbed to the torment of her twisted body, respect for anyone at the old Sawyer farm will be buried right beside her. The locals will feel sorry for me, of course, sorry I’ve been left to cope with my alcoholic father and his debts and antics, but they’ll stay as far away as possible, lest they get sucked into the drama of my life when their own are already difficult enough.
    I gather my courage and stand when it’s clear no one else intends to speak.
    “My grandmother was the only mother I ever knew,” I say, my voice strong and clear, despite the lump in my throat. “She was a God-fearing Christian, and she practiced every principle anybody ever preached from that pulpit. I think she held on to life just long enough to see me graduate, but I’m glad she’s gone now, because she suffered. A whole lot.” I clear my throat. “I just want to say thank you for those of you who were kind to her and to me while she lay dying. She would have wanted me to say that.”
    I sit down, and the preacher nods. A hymn is sung, a prayer is said and the service is over.
    We all stand as four of the deacons come to the front to shoulder Gran’s pine coffin and carry it outside.
    I follow, and in a moment my father stands to follow behind me. I hope he doesn’t stumble or worse. It will be a testimonial to my grandmother if Hearty can make it to the graveside without creating a scene.
    Gran asked to be buried at our farm, in the family cemetery next to her husband and my mother. Outside, I glance at my father, who is leaning against a tree, his eyelids drifting closed. I wonder if he’s sober enough to remember where he parked his pickup to drive himself home.
    The coffin is loaded into a hearse, and I sit beside the driver and wonder how many mourners will accompany us. I glance behind me and see a dozen cars, headlights bright, and I know what a tribute this is to my grandmother.
    The trip takes just minutes. On our hillside cemetery the grave has already been dug, and the ceremony there is blessedly short. Mrs. Pittman, dressed in a black skirt and blouse, with her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, comes to stand beside me. She puts her hand on my arm once I’ve thrown the first handful of dirt on the coffin that holds the only person who ever loved me.
    “Why don’t you come home with us now, Lottie Lou?” she asks, turning me so I won’t have to stare at the coffin disappearing under clods of dirt thrown by the rest of the mourners. Men from the church will finish filling the grave once the others leave, but my grandmother’s friends are doing their parts with gusto.
    “Preacher Pittman can drive you home after supper.” Mrs. Pittman bites her lip, as if the thought of my returning home without my grandmother to protect me is disturbing. Normally the neighbors would go up to the house after the funeral. Food would be served and memories exchanged, but no one is about to go