In the field an old man toils. His back is bent and crooked. His hands are calloused and brown. His face is drawn and leathery. His body is broken but his arms are strong. He works among the grasses and the pale yellow flowers and the neat rows of bleached crosses. He raises a shovel and cuts into the dense dirt.

The day is cloudy and the sun is dim and the wind picks up dust from the dark empty pavement. It stings the old man’s face. It tries to undo his work. It makes the branches of a young apple tree sway. The leaves dance and rustle and mingle with the chink chink of the shovel biting the earth.

Behind him a gate is drawn open and armed men are leaving. The old man knows where he will bury them. He will plant them beneath the apple tree with the others who will file out that gate. The old man lays down his shovel and watches them disappear and the gate drawn shut behind them. He knows what they do not: that they are already dead.

Smoke is rising from small fires. The smell of roasting meat is on the air, dinner will soon be ready. Compliments to the chef. Kiss the cook. The old man knows where they will be buried as well. He has picked out a plot for each of them. Row on row that only he can see.

He picks up his shovel and digs and hears laughter. It’s light and sweet. It’s rare but it happens. Bless the children, the strongest of them all. Bless the children, he thinks. He knows about them too. They will fill the gaps. They are, after all, so small.

The old man bends low and lifts a large form, bundled tightly, onto his small frail frame. He lowers it gently into the trough and pours the soft soil over it with his hard hands. He pats the loose bits down tenderly.  He brings a large and oppressive stone and lays it upon the grave.

With a mallet he drives another bleached cross into the ground. He wishes he was better with words. He wishes he could say something pretty. He wishes he was a poet.