To Know of Things Tired

A short story
by Beth Thomas

The late-November sun is warm, but the wind is cold. Walter dons a heavy flannel shirt before climbing out of the pickup truck. The old man has parked on the rough shoulder of a barely paved rural route. Only weeds and gourds line the road; billboards and mile markers are not needed here.

A blue-tailed lizard lounges on a smooth rock. Come springtime, tarantulas, snakes, and lizards will dominate this pastureland. Now, most living things are in burrows, preparing for the winter. An occasional tumbleweed blows past, kicking up sprays of dust. Cattle graze in the distance.

Walter's steps are measured, but he moves with a confidence that suggests he knows the area. He veers toward a small stand of desert willows some hundred yards from the road. He carries a dozen old cigar boxes. The boxes bear the names of nearby towns and long-ago dates, marked in blocky, childish handwriting. One reads "TATUM, 1938." Others: "ROSWELL, 1939" and "ARTESIA, 1939."

He strains to wrap his arms around them; his back bends to the wind. The dead are heavy.

After Walter reaches the stand of trees, he stacks the boxes in the dust and then removes a gardening spade from his jacket pocket. He kneels between two small mesquite shrubs and begins to dig. When the hole is a foot deep, he sits back on his heels and opens the box marked "TATUM, 1938." Inside, twenty-six stone arrowheads on a bed of shredded newspaper. They are rough and earthy, in varying shades of cream, gray, blue-green, red. Also in the box, a shard of clay pottery, painted black with red-and-white geometry. Lastly, a large, shiny black bead, two dusty bones.

He clears his throat and, after a pause, begins placing the items in the hollow. When all are laid to rest in the earth, he closes his eyes and recites a silent prayer from his childhood. Cradle these spirits in your arms and then allow them to join their friends in the skies. In these passing moments of quiet genuflection, the trough backfills, as if the land itself has hungered for these remnants for the past sixty years and is now feeding, now satisfied. The spirits resting in the desert willows sigh, At last.

Walter struggles to his feet and gathers his boxes. He sets out walking again, away from the country road, farther out into the plains.