Buckeye by Patrick Ryan

 "I used to know him," Everett said on their way back to the car, pointing a curled finger at one of the headstones.  "He worked at the tannery out by the water tower.  Played the violin." 

Becky looped her arm through his.  "Was he good?"

"Better than me."

"You play the violin?"

"Nope," Everett said.


The dead visit us in our dreams? Or do we just conjure them up out of grief or some other need and insert them into our subconscious.

 

"What was it like?"

It took Mrs. Dodson a moment to answer. "I won't lie to you," she said with a shrug that was mostly performed with her thin brow, "dying was unpleasant.  But death? It's wonderful."



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