It was the normalest of days til I found Bub stiff in his room, cold and dead as a doornail.

That day was Bub’s 10th birthday. Mama always let us stay home on our birthdays, so in the morning before I Ieft for school, instead of walking with him, I went into his room to tell him happy birthday and bye for now. He begged me to stay. He wanted me to celebrate with him for the big double digits. I told him no. He held onto my arm and I said I wish I could. He said please. I went Daddy’ll whoop me. Daddy wouldn’t do that, but he was the master of stern talking tos. Sometimes I’d rather get a whooping than be invited into his den to “discuss things,” as he so called it. Bub got desperate then, and that’s when I started really feeling bad. So I promised I’d be back as soon as I could. I’d run to get him his present as soon as the bell rang and then run back home. I gave him my pinky and we swore. He smiled at me, satisfied enough with my vow. And then I left.

Bub and I went to the same school. Real small place. Maybe two hundred students, grades 5 through 12. Bub would always grab my hand and try to drag me to the wheat fields on our walk to school. That was his preferred route, but it took longer despite him insisting it was a shortcut. I said to him just because it ain’t on the road don’t mean it’s faster. And he’d just laugh. Sometimes I’d entertain him though. It always made us late for school. We’d go into class covered in little bits of wheat, and the teachers would know that Bub had won that day. He didn’t really think it was a shortcut, though he never explicitly told me that. I think he just liked the way the wheat felt on his young skin, especially when the wind was blowing and the sun was shining on his back. It did feel pretty damn good, I have to admit.

Even though Bub wasn’t walking with me that day, I went to school through the wheat fields anyhow. It was his birthday, after all. I figured I’d tell him when I got home from school. That’s when I got the idea for his present. Old Ms. Hattie lived a few blocks away from the school, and she did flower pressing and scrapbooks and crafty stuff like that. I was gonna pick him a bushel of the best wheat and have her press them into a nice little book he could flip through, and if he flipped fast enough, he’d be able to feel the breeze he liked so much. I’d write little notes on each page under it, too. Something like you’re a big man now; don’t let it get to your head or I’d give you the whole field if I could. Silly stuff like that. Me and Bub are sentimental people, but Mama and Daddy find that sort of thing embarrassing. Ah, hell. They didn’t have to see it.

I got to school right on time since I didn’t have Bub to slow me down. He was very much a “stop and smell the roses” sort of boy. He wouldn’t just walk through the field, no, he would take his sweet old time. He ran his little hands along all the wheat as he walked, occasionally pulling some out and sticking it in his mouth like a cowboy. He’d side-eye me and then go I’m gonna shoot this whiskey, partner, and you best be running so you’re not next. He heard that line in a movie once. Little guy didn’t even know what it meant, hardly. I’d play along and say something like please forgive me, sir, I won’t bother you again. All the shots are on the house, so long as you spare my life. And he’d crack up. Other times, he would just pick off the kernels and throw them behind him to be swept up in the wind, or if they went the other way, swept up in my face.

All of Bub’s classmates came up to me and requested that their birthday wishes be passed along to him. Everyone knew everybody’s birthdays. In the city, folks barely know their own. Around these parts, we know that sort of stuff about everyone. Each little kid wanted to make sure I gave him the message exactly as they said it. I’m a girl of my word, so I fetched a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote them all down, all eleven of them.

Have a good birthday. For your birthday, I will forgive you for using my crayon sharpener for your whittling. I remember that incident. Even though I already forgave you a while ago.

 Happy birthday, you son of a gun. That one in particular actually said “sonuvabitch,” but I told him he wasn’t allowed to say that word til next year. So he changed it to “son of a gun.” I can’t wait for ten more.

Now that you’re ten like me, I can say that I like you. Do you like me? Under that she asked me to draw three boxes: yes, no, and maybe. God, they grow up so fast. Bub could’ve gotten himself a girlfriend at age ten. He really was one son of a gun.

The rest were fairly similar. Mrs. Anderson called them back into class. I promised them again that I’d tell him everything they’d said. And I would’ve, too.

I got English class first. We’re reading The Catcher in the Rye. It’s supposed to be a classic, but normally I don’t like classics, so I don’t think Catcher can really be called that because I’m liking it so far. Holden’s brother Allie reminds me of Bub, except one had a baseball glove and the other had wheat. I think Bub would’ve liked the story, too. He liked to read a lot. He was always reading. He’d read anything, but he especially liked memoirs and autobiographies of people he didn’t know. Bub went through Michelle Obama’s book in two days, and he didn’t even know she was the first lady before that. For some reason, Bub used to think JFK was president when he was little. I had to break that news to him. It was a sad day. It was like Lee Harvey Oswald had come back from the dead and shot him again. After that, he didn’t pay much attention to things like politics. I asked him once why he read about people he knew nothing about, and he looked at me like I was stupid and went why would I read about something I already know? He got me there.

Then there was arithmetic. All a bunch of bull. Ms. Brinner would always look over my shoulder as I did my trigonometry and ask me how come you don’t do word problems right when you’re so good at English, hm? She didn’t mean it hurtful or nothing, so I would just shrug and go Gregory and his 28 apples ain’t as interesting as Don Quixote. Then she’d shake her head and go on to the next kid. She’s a pretty lady, so we used to wonder why she wasn’t married yet. I think it’s cause she’s a math teacher. But I haven’t told anyone that. I’m afraid it’ll get out and hurt her feelings. I’d think about marrying her, if I was old enough and a lesbian. Hell, I haven’t been romantically involved with anyone since Bobby Miller and I kissed on the slide in the third grade. He was a rotten kisser, but a nice boy. He and his mama sent us a bouquet of flowers. A lot of folks did, actually, but only Bobby’s bouquet had Bub’s favorites– lilies and daisies.

We’ve been talking about the water cycle in science class lately, even though we’re seniors. Mrs. Quincy had already taught us all about cells and space and dinosaurs and anatomy, so she didn’t know what else to do other than go back to the basics. It’s easy and getting boring now, but I still think the water cycle is a beautiful concept when you think about it. All the water on Earth has been around since the beginning of time. The water I drink very well may have passed through Leonardo DiCaprio’s shower or Beyonce’s sink. Everyone in the whole wide world shares water, not just with other people, but with the clouds and the ground and animals and plants. I leave class to go to the water fountain all the time now cause the wheat Bub used to touch could’ve been watered with the same water I’m drinking now, just it went through the ground and up in the air and back down again first. So it’s like a bit of Bub’ll be around forever, very faintly, swimming and floating along with the water cycle. I haven’t told anyone that, though. People might think it’s weird.

When I opened my lunch that day, I found a note Bub had left me. That’s the kind of kid he was– he’d write you a nice little note on his own birthday. I keep it in my wallet now. Hope you have a good day at school, it said. Don’t forget to pick me up my present. Love, Bub. I haven’t looked at it much cause I’m afraid of the writing fading if I touch it, since it’s done in pencil.

I didn’t pay much attention in my other classes cause frankly, I was too busy thinking about Bub’s present. I’d have to tell old Ms. Hattie to be quick about it. She normally was, though. She even had Bub’s handmade funeral programs finished the next afternoon for almost everyone in town. Course, news spreads fast around here. So I knew Ms. Hattie could finish that book in nothing flat. Obviously then I had no idea about how quick she would make the programs, but I was very familiar with her work. Practically every girl in town either had their prom dress altered or even made by old Ms. Hattie, and I never saw her break a sweat.

So once the bell rang, I was full of ideas. I ran out and cut through the wheat field. I picked a good few golden stalks, with no trace of an unripe green tone. Then I circled back to her house. She has a little black tomcat that hangs around nearby. She insists it ain’t hers, but we all know who puts the grilled salmon on her front porch every night, and we all know who it’s for.

Anyway, he was there that day. I scritched him behind his ears before I used the door knocker. That thing was crazy old, long green from oxidation. It was like something out of the Addams Family or something.

She opened the door for me and said hello. I asked her how’s old Scuffy doing? Scuffy’s

the cat. He slipped between my legs and waltzed right into the foyer like he owned the place. She went, I wouldn’t know. I thought that was pretty funny. Old Ms. Hattie gestured for me to follow Scuffy inside. He looked back at me with his big yellow eyes as if to say, well, come on now. His right ear twitched upon hearing my footsteps make the floorboards creak. That ear was the one that got clipped when he was fixed, but they took a good third off. Bub thought that made him look like a pirate cat. He sometimes called him Captain Scuffy. He really liked that cat. We never had a cat, but up until fairly recently we had our sheepdog, Twicks. I say “our,” but he was mostly Bub’s. He loved that dog to the ends of the earth. He was the one that picked the name when we brought her home. He wanted to name her after something he really loved, so once we told him it would be strange to name her the same thing as one of us, he decided on Twicks. Like the candy bar, only spelled different, with a “ck” instead of an “x,” since he wanted it to be unique. As if naming a dog after a candy bar isn’t unique enough.

Twicks died of natural causes on her own, so we didn’t have to pull an Old Yeller or Of Mice and Men on her, thank the Lord. Daddy might’ve made Bub do it himself had it been necessary. I wouldn’t have let him, though. I would’ve done it myself if I had to. That was just around a week and a half ago. He cried so hard, but Daddy told him he could only cry once about it if he needed to at all. I love Daddy and all, but he don’t think boys should cry at all. And strong girls like me and my mother shouldn’t do it much, either. Up until Bub died, that is. So instead of crying, Bub shoved his tears down and put all of his attention and emotion into his fiddle. Damn, could that boy play. He could out-fiddle the devil if “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” ever had a rematch. He was practicing real hard for his fiddling competition. It was a big stressor for him, even though he had more talent in his bow hand than our entire family combined. He would’ve been competing this weekend, actually. I betcha he would’ve won, too. And I’m not just saying that because he’s my brother.

I liked to sing as Bub played. I can’t sing worth a damn, but Bub insisted I could. We’d sit on his bed and he’d play and I’d sing until Mama called for us saying dinner was ready. Those are some of my best memories— making music and not thinking about anything else but the sound.

Anyway, Old Ms. Hattie asked what it was that I needed. I explained about why I brought a bushel of wheat into her home (which she had politely not asked about, but Scuffy sneezed a few times to show his opinion on it) and about Bub’s birthday, which she already knew about, and then proposed my idea. I told her I needed it done that day and she didn’t even blink. She took the wheat, brought it to her desk, and started pressing it.

Ms. Hattie has what I like to call a “squasher,” because I don’t know what it’s really called. She used to press flowers by sticking her big heavy large-print bible on top of them, but that method got too slow, so she got the squasher. She pulls a lever, and a piece of metal comes down real hard and presses it down within seconds. So I watched her do that with each stalk, petting Scuffy who’d settled on my lap once the wheat was out of my hands. He sounded like an old smoker when he purred. Bub used to say it was more like a rusty motorcycle.

Once she was finished with the actual construction part, we decorated it together while Scuffy periodically swatted things off her desk. The border of each page was covered with thin gold ribbon, and I used my best cursive for each note. The cover was soft and plushy, embroidered with the words Ten Stalks for Ten Years– to Bub.

I said goodbye to Ms. Hattie and Scuffy, who stayed in the house curled up on the carpet, then ran back home. I was so excited I could hardly breathe when I finally slowed down as I walked through the door. It was all very, very quiet in there. Our house usually was, but this wasn’t a silence that was just a lack of sound; no, it was the kind of silence that sucks everything into its maw. I didn’t think much of it at the time, so I called out for Bub, but he didn’t answer. I figured maybe he was taking a nap or watching TV or something, so I went upstairs to his room and knocked loud on his door. Nothing.

After a moment of waiting, I went alright, Bub, I’m coming in. You better not be pranking me. Still no answer. I opened the door and saw him under the blankets, asleep on his bed. At least, that’s what I thought. I found it a little odd, though– he was never a heavy sleeper. I shook him a little. He didn’t move. C’mon, Bub, I yelled, you’re gonna miss the big one-oh if you sleep through all of it. I glanced over at his nightstand. There was a bottle of ibuprofen, a half empty glass of water, and a melted bag of ice. I took off the covers, grabbed both his shoulders, and shook him harder. That’s when I noticed he felt awful cold, and sort of stiff. My heart hitched into my throat. I shouted in his ear, ran my hand against his face, and smacked him. I rolled him over to his back. He was heavier than normal, and kind of hard to move. I put my fingers on his neck, also stiff, over his carotid artery. I tried to feel something, anything, for probably a few minutes, switching between his neck and wrist. Absolutely nothing.

I knew he was dead but I kept trying, kept shouting his name, kept shaking him. I don’t know what I was thinking when I did this, but I picked up his fiddle and bow and started playing. All that came from the strings were sharp shrieks, matching my shaking voice. I truly accepted he was dead then. If he didn’t rise from the fiddle, he wasn’t gonna rise for anything. I set it back down and fell to my knees. My baby brother was dead. Not because his pulse stopped. Not because he was cold to the touch. Not because he was starting rigor mortis. But because he didn’t wake up for what he loved most.

I won’t discuss much in detail of what happened after that. I told Mama and Daddy. They called the doctor. He was pronounced dead. The funeral home came and took him away. Me and Daddy had to hold Mama back. Daddy cried for the first time in all seventeen years I’d been alive.

We made funeral plans the next day. The mortician dressed and did him up real good. The funeral was two days after. Everyone came. Everyone was crying and wearing black. People ran up to me, tears running down their face, and hugged me. But I didn’t want their embraces or assurances or sympathy. I wanted Bub’s.

The funeral home gave us the go ahead to let us bury him next to Twicks. His gravestone was very simple but nice. It had his name, his birthday, and his death date. Those things shouldn’t be within a decade of each other. Once they let me be alone with him, I read him his book and then placed it on his grave.

The doctors said it was an aneurysm. That’s when a blood vessel in the brain bulges out and eventually ruptures. If you get help right away, there’s a fifty percent chance you’ll live. If I had just stayed the hell home, he could still be alive today. He could’ve seen his present. He could’ve won his fiddle competition. He could’ve raised another sheepdog. He could’ve gotten himself a girl. He could’ve graduated. But I told him I had to go to school. I abandoned him. It’s my fault he died. And now the world is so goddamn bleak I can hardly stand it.

I sit in the wheat fields almost every day now. I wish I would’ve gone that way to school with him every day. I sit there and pray that him and Twicks are doing alright by themselves in heaven.

That’s all I can really say without bawling. Man, just talking about it is all of a sudden making my head hurt like hell.