batteofomega4
Well-Known Member
Afterward, while Mae was shopping for supplies, Tuck when back through the town on foot - back the way they had come - out to the little hill. There were houses there now, and a feed-and-grain store, but on the far side of the hill, inside a rambling iron fence, was a cemetery.
Tuck's heart quickened. He had noticed the cemetery on the way in. Mae had seen it, too. They had not spoken about it. But both knew it might hold other answers. Tuck straightened his old jacket. He passed through the archway of the wrought-iron curlicues, and paused, squinting at the weedy rows of gravestones. And then, far over to the right, he saw a tall monument, once no doubt imposing but now tipped slightly sideways. On it was carved one name: Foster.
Slowly, Tuck turned his footsteps toward the monument. And saw, as he approached, that there were other smaller markers all around it. A family plot. And then his throat closed. For it was there. He had wanted it to be there, but now that he saw it, he was overcome with sadness. He knelt and read the inscription:
In Loving Memory
Winifred Foster Jackson
Dear Wife
Dear Mother
1870 - 1948
"So," Tuck said to himself. "Two years. She's been gone for two years." He stood up and looked around, embarrassed, trying to clear the lump from his throat. But there was no one to see him. The cemetery was very quiet. In the branches of a willow behind him, a red-winged blackbird chirped. Then he straightened his jacket again and drew up his hand in a brief salute. "Good girl," he said aloud. And then he turned and left the cemetery, walking quickly.-Tuck Everlasting
Tuck's heart quickened. He had noticed the cemetery on the way in. Mae had seen it, too. They had not spoken about it. But both knew it might hold other answers. Tuck straightened his old jacket. He passed through the archway of the wrought-iron curlicues, and paused, squinting at the weedy rows of gravestones. And then, far over to the right, he saw a tall monument, once no doubt imposing but now tipped slightly sideways. On it was carved one name: Foster.
Slowly, Tuck turned his footsteps toward the monument. And saw, as he approached, that there were other smaller markers all around it. A family plot. And then his throat closed. For it was there. He had wanted it to be there, but now that he saw it, he was overcome with sadness. He knelt and read the inscription:
In Loving Memory
Winifred Foster Jackson
Dear Wife
Dear Mother
1870 - 1948
"So," Tuck said to himself. "Two years. She's been gone for two years." He stood up and looked around, embarrassed, trying to clear the lump from his throat. But there was no one to see him. The cemetery was very quiet. In the branches of a willow behind him, a red-winged blackbird chirped. Then he straightened his jacket again and drew up his hand in a brief salute. "Good girl," he said aloud. And then he turned and left the cemetery, walking quickly.-Tuck Everlasting
