|Child one slumps in his chair; only his head is above the table. Child
two hovers behind the diners, giggling with her cousin.
— We’re leaving.
Out of the gathering, out the farmhouse door, onto the road.
— It’s hot.
Down to the crossroads, over the bypass, past the new houses.
— Can’t you walk faster?
The children poke at ants with their sticks. Father waits under the gate.
— Where is it?
— She was my friend’s mother.
They find a grave from 1835, but they don’t find Uncle.