Blankenship didn't hear the priest's opening words. He heard people sit down behind him, and he noted that the sound of water hitting the makeshift tent mingled with their whispers and their folding, shivering umbrellas. A little girl carried a yellow one, and he saw the light of it amidst the intermingled shadows of gray clouds and those cast by ancient oaks as she walked toward the grave. The age-worn branches labored in the wind; endlessly they creaked and rubbed into life a music, a siren's song, the lyrics a sighing lament that told of what lay beneath the turf. Blankenship wondered what the roots knew and how much they would tell if he listened, if anyone listened. He realized he missed the reading when the prayer began. The priest spoke words into the air, but Blankenship pictured in his mind's eye his boy's room the night he learned of the sickness. A window had been left open and the wind swept in, and wave upon wave of dust was tossed over the floor. H
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