Brief Visits, by Bobby Warner

I walked up to the gate and leaned on it, looking over into the yard. The old house was sagging toward the south; it needed repairs badly. The yard was a sea of weeds and grass. But she sat there unconcerned under the shade of the old oak tree. A ragged rope hung down, holding a worn, tattered automobile tire. We used to play on that tire when we were much younger.

"'Lo, Emma," I said. I'd been saying it for years, ever since I came along that morning long ago and found her sleeping the Eternal Sleep in her rocker underneath the oak. She didn't speak, of course, but that didn't put me off. I'd loved her for as long as I could recall; and now I loved what was left of her, which wasn't much after so many years out in the weather. I should have buried her, but could never bring myself to do that. She lived way back in Darkly Hollow, and no one but me ever came out this way.

So I continued to lean on the fence while I paid her another brief visit, then I went into the yard, kissed the top of her bonnet, and returned to my pickup truck and left.

​Someday the wind will blow hard and scatter what remains of Emma, and I won't go back anymore. I'll not have any reason to. She won't be there anymore. But in the meantime, I'll keep on going back for the brief visits, just to let her know I still care.`