Live Like You Were Dying by Michael Morris

asked while wrapped in Grand Vestal’s arms.
    She pulled Malley back and studied her the way she might’ve if Malley had the measles. “How’d she know . . . how’d she know? Well, you’re the brightest thing to land on this side of Georgia since that star fell from the sky and burnt a hole through my barn.”
    After Grand Vestal hugged Heather, she turned her attention to me. She brushed the hair from my forehead and looked at me so deeply that I had to turn away and point to the dogwood tree that still filled the corner of her yard. “I see that old thing is still around.”
    â€œSugar Boy, that tree’s like me. It’ll be here till Gabriel blows his trumpet.”
    That evening we finished off the best fried chicken a man could eat, and I helped Grand Vestal clean the kitchen while Malley and Heather got ready for bed. “You’re adrift . . . I see it in the way you move your eyes,” she said, running her hands over my forearms. “Your bones are weary too.”
    Her diagnoses always made me uncomfortable, because nine times out of ten she was right. “I’m fine . . . really. I could plow a garden if you wanted me to.”
    She straightened the tablecloth and laughed. “You and your garden! You don’t know how many times I’m out there working in that pasture and get so tickled. It’s a wonder the neighbors don’t call the police on me. Sometimes I just howl thinking about . . . you know what I’m fixing to say?”
    â€œThe foot thing.”
    She fanned her hands and giggled. “Yes, gracious, yes. Every time I’m out in that garden, I can just see you running through that dirt barefooted. Your little bird chest just a-heavin’ for air.”
    â€œYeah, well, I’ve still got that bird chest,” I said, patting my mending ribs. The very touch caused the spot to cross my mind. It was a distraction that both irritated and reminded me of chores left to be done.
    â€œDid you call and let your daddy know you were coming?” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask, but now there was no way out.
    â€œNo, I ran out of time.”
    â€œWell, now, just so you know . . . he’s coming over for dinner tomorrow.” I wanted to protest, but there was no use. Facing him and the past would be a task I’d have to handle sooner or later.
    I watched her fill a glass of water, which was her nightly routine, and then reach for a plastic lid from a margarine container to keep out the night critters, as she called moths. I felt the pang that comes with being reunited. I could have dictated her moves as good as any Hollywood director. Her habits were stamped in the memories of my childhood and lodged too deep to be stolen.
    â€œGood night, Sugar Boy,” she said just before turning out the kitchen light.
    Standing in the darkness with the soft rays of moonlight streaming in from the kitchen window, I reached out for her arm and said the words that I should have said all of those times before. “You’re something special, Grand Vestal. I haven’t said it in a long time . . . but I love you.”
    Her gasp was quick, and her pat to my arm was even swifter. “You sure do know how to make an old lady proud. I love you too, Sugar Boy. You are a bright spot that lingers around this place.” She brushed her thick hand across my face and nodded. “Now, then, we best get to bed because Herman will be a-crowin’ soon enough.”
    â€œHerman?” I asked, trailing behind her, the hallway boards creaking beneath our weight. “What happened to that other rooster?”
    Grand Vestal opened the door to her bedroom. “Oh, you’re talking about Augustus. Shoot, he got to crowing too early, so I had to serve him up for Easter dinner.”
    At sunrise Herman went to work. The rooster was loud enough to wake anybody in the vicinity of forty acres. Malley snatched the bedroom door open,