You’re going to make yourself sick and I don’t think I can stand any more of it.”
“I can’t, Mama,” I said. “It hurts so much, I just can’t. I don’t want you to feel bad just because I do.”
“I can’t help it, Billy,” she said. “Come now and get back in bed. I’m afraid you’ll catch cold.”
After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed for a while.
As if she were talking to the darkness, I heard her say, “If only there were some way I could help—something I could do.”
“No one can help, Mama,” I said. “No one can bring my dogs back.”
“I know,” she said, as she got up to leave the room, “but there must be something—there just has to be.”
After Mama had left the room, I buried my face in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning I made another box. It was smaller than the first one.
Each nail I drove in the rough pine boards caused the knot in my throat to get bigger and bigger.
My sisters came to help. They stood it for a while, then with tears streaming, they ran for the house.
I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I knew that was where she wanted to be.
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