On the way to the pharmacy, a cold wind came, and off doctor’s orders flew—zephyr-lifted and flipped, cloud-dampened, rain-battered, cow-chewed, mulch- and muck-made. What could we do but request another. Waiting, Gramps lost a hand, then two. Arms. A leg, then another. A lung or two. An ear, an eye. A thought, then five, then thirty-five. Soon, only the blush of his organs to tuck into bed.

That Sunday, the little girl from three farms over pushed her nose into the give of the screen on our door and opened it a crack. She wore an apron with cornflowers stitched on the bib. She called out Miss Mary? and handed me a damp scrap of paper with an “x” on it, another with an “R.” They were stuck on little pig’s snout, she said. Ma thought it might be your grandaddy’s, him being not so well and all. 

Not much left of him, I said. Only the throb of his heart. I palmed the fragments she pressed into my hand and slipped a butterscotch into hers. She grinned and swung her legs back over her bicycle. All you need! she called back over her shoulder, pedaling down the dirt road, glowing gamboge, like the wings of a goldfinch.