The Name I Cut in the Hayfield

She was crying. Not a little. She had her good handkerchief out and her shoulders were going.

I thought it was the wedding. Mothers cry at weddings.

Then she said, “Gwen. I owe you something and I am going to say it while I have the nerve.”

She looked out at the field where the letters had gone dark gold in the low light. Past the dancing, past her granddaughter in the white dress.

“I called it a field. I let her call it dirt.” Her voice shook. “And you went out there and put my daddy’s name up over the top of all of us, where we could not miss it.”

She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “He would have loved that. Lord, Gwen, he would have loved his name over the dancing. I can just see him.”

I put my arm around her and we stood there. I did not say anything smart or settle any score.

There was nothing left to settle. My mother had seen the field. That was the whole of what I wanted.

She told me, still crying, that she had been wrong on the phone. She said she should never have told me to be the bigger person over my own grandfather’s ground.

I told her it was long over. I meant it. You cannot stay angry at a woman who raised you alone after your daddy walked out.

We watched Megan dance a while. Mama held my hand the way she used to when we crossed the road, and neither one of us let go.

She asked me, right then, wiping her eyes, “Can I get a copy of the picture from up high.”

“I want it on the wall where I can see it every day.” I told her she could have the biggest one they made.