There wasn’t much to be hopeful about that day, except maybe all the sunshine. Still, sunshine wasn’t enough to brighten a funeral. I sat on the shoe chest in our living room, facing the eastern side of our house. Our dining room was about ten feet in front of me. Another ten feet past the dining room doorway, down the avenue of maple floorboards, was the big window.

Beyond the window, as if the maple flooring continued its conquest, were the golden tides of a freshly harvested corn field. The sky and the field split the landscape, teasing each other as oil does water. It was still, like a painting. I didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. I was half hoping to become part of the painting, because paintings usually stay the same forever.