Home Burial
He saw her from the bottom
of the stairs
Before she saw him. She
was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder
at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and
then undid it
To raise herself and look
again. He spoke
Advancing toward her:
“What is it you see
From up there always—for
I want to know.”
She turned and sank upon her
skirts at that,
And her face changed from
terrified to dull.
He said to gain time:
“What is it you see,”
Mounting until she cowered
under him.
“I will find out now—you
must tell me, dear.”
She, in her place, refused
him any help
With the least stiffening
of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that
he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature; and a while
he didn’t see.
But at last he murmured, “Oh,”
and again, “Oh.”
“What is it—what?”
she said.
“Just that I see.”
“You don’t,”
she challenged. “Tell me what it is.”
“The wonder is I didn’t
see at once.
I never noticed it from here
before.
I must be wonted to it—that’s
the reason.
The little graveyard where
my people are!
So small the window frames
the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a
bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of
slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs
there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven’t
to mind those.
But I understand: it
is not the stones,
But the child’s mound——”
“Don’t, don’t,
don’t, don’t,” she cried.
She withdrew shrinking from
beneath his arm
That rested on the banister,
and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such
a daunting look,
He said twice over before
he knew himself:
“Can’t a man speak
of his own child he’s lost?”
“Not you! Oh, where’s
my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!
I must get out of here.
I must get air.
I don’t know rightly
whether any man can.”
“Amy! Don’t
go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won’t
come down the stairs.”
He sat and fixed his chin
between his fists.
“There’s something
I should like to ask you, dear.”
“You don’t know
how to ask it.”
“Help me, then.”
Her fingers moved the latch
for all reply.
“My words are nearly
always an offence.
I don’t know how to
speak of anything
So as to please you.
But I might be taught
I should suppose. I can’t
say I see how.
A man must partly give up
being a man
With women-folk. We could
have some arrangement
By which I’d bind myself
to keep hands off
Anything special you’re
a-mind to name.
Though I don’t like
such things ’twixt those that love.
Two that don’t love
can’t live together without them.
But two that do can’t
live together with them.”
She moved the latch a little.
“Don’t—don’t go.
Don’t carry it to someone
else this time.
Tell me about it if it’s
something human.
Let me into your grief.
I’m not so much
Unlike other folks as your
standing there
Apart would make me out.
Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo
it a little.
What was it brought you up
to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of
a first child
So inconsolably—in
the face of love.
You’d think his memory
might be satisfied——”
“There you go sneering
now!”
“I’m not, I’m
not!
You make me angry. I’ll
come down to you.
God, what a woman! And
it’s come to this,
A man can’t speak of
his own child that’s dead.”
“You can’t because
you don’t know how.
If you had any feelings, you
that dug
With your own hand—how
could you?—his little grave;
I saw you from that very window
there,
Making the gravel leap and
leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that,
and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound
beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man?
I didn’t know you.
And I crept down the stairs
and up the stairs
To look again, and still your
spade kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard
your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I
don’t know why,
But I went near to see with
my own eyes.
You could sit there with the
stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your
own baby’s grave
And talk about your everyday
concerns.
You had stood the spade up
against the wall
Outside there in the entry,
for I saw it.”
“I shall laugh the worst
laugh I ever laughed.
I’m cursed. God,
if I don’t believe I’m cursed.”
“I can repeat the very
words you were saying.
’Three foggy mornings
and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence
a man can build.’
Think of it, talk like that
at such a time!
What had how long it takes
a birch to rot
To do with what was in the
darkened parlour.
You couldn’t care!
The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes
so far short
They might as well not try
to go at all.
No, from the time when one
is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies
more alone.
Friends make pretence of following
to the grave,
But before one is in it, their
minds are turned
And making the best of their
way back to life
And living people, and things
they understand.
But the world’s evil.
I won’t have grief so
If I can change it. Oh,
I won’t, I won’t!”
“There, you have said
it all and you feel better.
You won’t go now.
You’re crying. Close the door.
The heart’s gone out
of it: why keep it up.
Amy! There’s someone
coming down the road!”
“You—oh,
you think the talk is all. I must go—
Somewhere out of this house.
How can I make you——”
“If—you—do!”
She was opening the door wider.
Where do you mean to go?
First tell me that.
I’ll follow and bring
you back by force. I will!—”
