That it is. You shield your eyes from the sun. A ripple of wind blows through the treetops marking the edge of the meadow. Your top flutters in the breeze. You think, it’s a shame to dig up this field.
“It is,” you murmur.
Even though the sun has been pressing down all day he insists on wearing a two-piece suit. A black two-piece suit. You wonder if he’s going to loosen the tie. His face is as red as the wild poppies dotted all over the field, and the sweat is slick on his cheeks.
“So how much?”
He tells you a number you’ve already been given. It’s written down somewhere, but you can’t think of anything else to say. The silence here is as oppressive as the heat.
Honeysuckles, foxgloves, buttercups, cow parsley, corncockles, and more all grow here in mounds scattered like seeds. Fat bees carve a determined path from hummock to tump, riding the invisible waves of the breeze. The same gentle gust buffets cabbage whites and red admirals as they flutter around the meadow.
Christ, it’s hot.
You nod. He hands you a card. You watch him walk back to his car. Then you walk back to yours.
A plot like this. If it were up to you, you’d leave them alone. Leave them to nature. Leave them to the wildflowers and the insects. You tell yourself, it’s not about you. She left clear instructions and your shoulders have to be broad enough.
The knowledge does nothing to lighten the load.
A deep breath shudders from your chest. With a heavy clunk, you shove the seatbelt buckle in place. The card is still in your hand. You know what it says but read it anyway.
Natural Meadow Burials.
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