The Talking Bone

1.

My grandfather had a long white bone he called the talking bone. The rule was, if the talking bone came out, you had to be

quiet so the bone could talk. I was scared of that talking bone. The scratches on its surface spoke of the crime of life.

Its fat, knobbed ends told me it had once occupied a human, like me.

In later years, I would question that bone. Where did you come from, bone? Why were you in my house, as modest as it is, with the dusty vines climbing the cabin window,

the view of the mighty river outside our door? Why did my grandfather clutch you when he could not sleep, and why is it that

you spoke to him and not to me?

But now, in this place called, quite simply and perfectly, the death house, I am starting to understand the talking bone.

It is talking to me, finally. After all these years. Across the states and miles and endless winds. The talking bone has something

to say.