Roots

My sister's husband and I had picked out the place. A bulldozer operator from the timber enterprise who was passing by turned off on his own initiative and cleared a road through the snow. All he asked was: "Who are you burying?" Upon learning that we were burying my mother, he refused to take anything for his work and drove away. My mother would have a good place—tall birches and a fir tree that was straight as an arrow. . . .