‘Stay right there.’ The young man raised one hand.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said the old man. ‘Nor is anyone else nearby.

The half-truck was pulled up by the dirt mound and the young man was reaching in for a spade, when the old man said, ‘No, I think not.’

The old man went on.

‘Graveyard spade’s best. Familiar metal, familiar soil. Easy digging, when like takes to like. So. ’

The old man’s head indicated a spade half-stuck in the dark mound. The young man shrugged and moved.

The cemetery spade came free with a soft whispering. Pellets of ancient mound fell with similar whispers.

He began to dig and shift and fill the back of his half-truck as the old man, from the corners of his eyes, observed, ‘It’s more than dirt, as I said. War of 1812, San Juan Hill, Manassas, Gettysburg, October flu epidemic 1918, all strewn from graves filled and evicted to be refilled. Various occupants leavened out to dust, various glories melted to mixtures, rust from metal caskets, coffin handles, shoelaces but no shoes, hairs long and short. Ever see wreaths made of hair saved to weave crowns to fix on mortal pictures? All that’s left of a smile or that funny look in the eyes of someone who knows she’s not alive any more, ever. Hair, epaulettes, not whole ones, but one strand of epaulettes, all there, along with blood that’s gone to silt.’

The young man finished, sweating, and started to thrust the spade back in the earth when the old man said:

‘Take it. Cemetery dirt, cemetery spade, like takes to like.’

‘I’ll bring it back tomorrow.’ The young man tossed the spade into the mounded truck.

‘No. You got the dirt, so keep the spade. Just don’t bring that free dirt back.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Just don’t,’ said the old man, but did not move as the young man climbed in his truck to start the engine.