Wind

Wind blows down the slopes, a change-smell in the air. By the moon’s keen light, Sam readies the site for burial.
Around the tiger, Sam lays a circle of stones. Home, Sam calls this. To one side of the circle, their pot and pan and ladle and knife and spoons. Kitchen, Sam calls this. To the other, their blankets. Bedroom, Sam calls this. At the edge, branches stuck upright. Walls, Sam calls this. Over the branches, woven grass mats. Roof, Sam calls this.
The center Sam keeps empty till last.
It’s close to dawn by the time Sam finishes. The grass ceiling is clumsy and gaping¹, the pan still clumped² with oats. Sam is a poor housekeeper³ on account of having no practice. All the same, Sam shooed Lucy’s help away. Now Sam walks to the tiger skull⁴ and holds the shovel⁵ aloft. Does Sam’s hand quiver as the blade sinks into dirt?
Sam stops. The quivering continues. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe something else. Sam’s face is dry. Sam stares at the skull as if expecting an answer.
Lucy comes up and takes Sam’s hand. Today she encounters no protest as she lays Sam down and tucks the blanket beneath that trembling chin. There’s no hurry now. They’ll bury come daybreak. Till then, Lucy offers to sit vigil.
—
And all the rest of that night the wind blows with particular fierceness. Blows Sam’s house down, blows straight through Lucy’s threadbare dress and blanket, down her throat and into her hollows so that she’s cold from the inside. A slapping wind. Quick gusts⁶ against her cheeks. It means the rainy season is coming.
Though coming’s too strong a word, unless it’s meant as Ba meant it, saying I’ll come home tonightand meaning the next morning, the next night, the next Monday, red-eyed and fuming⁷ with whiskey. Rain’s coming in the way Ba was and was not coming: a far-off, brooding cloud. While Sam sleeps, the wind blows loud enough to keep Lucy awake. A wind unlike the daytime wind, a wind like a voice, low and

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