"That goes in the pantry and that bag goes upstairs in the kitchen," he told me.
"I told you to give me ten minutes," my father then said to me as I grabbed two more bags of food and sundries.
"It has been 20 minutes since I talked to you on the phone," I replied and we both nervously laughed.
"This is taking longer than I thought it would," my father replied with an air of consternation in his voice.
We were going to take my medications just a little early so grocery shopping would be easier for me. I was having second thoughts about buying groceries tonight. I haven't been the same since that damned ordeal with my country road 388 "friends". I've been really struggling lately from the strife it caused me.
"You can't take all that shit going on," my father keeps telling me. "You're too goodhearted and can't take confrontation."
"I finally got your mother's tombstone in place," my father then said as he turned on National Public Radio and plopped down into his recliner. "We will have to get some flowers and take them out there."
My mother's ashes are buried in Waverly, Alabama (a suitable land called god's country) which is about a 45-minute drive away across the county.
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