Easter came in the middle of April, cold and gray, with old snow still in the ditches and the first geese coming back over the fields.
We all came home to the farm the way we always do.
Steve and I drove out from Bismarck on Saturday afternoon. Rob and Shirley came from Mandan. Dean came from Fargo with his teenage son, Tanner. By Sunday morning, the old farmhouse was full and warm, the thermostat at seventy, the kitchen windows steamed up from the cooking.
Mom had the ham in the oven by eight. Her kuchen, the German custard pie her mother taught her to make, peach and prune, sat cooling on the counter beside a plate of cinnamon rolls. The house smelled like cloves and brown sugar and coffee.
Rob and Dean sat at the kitchen table with their coffee, the way they’ve sat at that table since they were boys. Steve and Shirley were in the living room with Tanner, watching a basketball game.
Mom sat in her chair by the window, where the light was best for her crossword puzzle.
No coat. No hat. Just a lavender cardigan and her reading glasses.
I’d told Rob and Dean everything the night before, out in the machine shed where Mom couldn’t hear. The propane. The coat. The frost on the windows. The checks. Mr. Ostrander. The power of attorney.
Dean had gone pale. Rob had stood there in the cold shed for a long time without saying anything. Then he’d kicked an empty oil can across the concrete floor so hard it dented.
