Ardmore

ARDMORE / William Stafford By eight it was dark, with a breeze. A dog trotted by. A woman yelled and a man said, "Shut up." The smell of a pond or a river came. The silver of moonlight began, but I had become like a part of the porch of Grandpa's house, an Indian or post. And I wouldn't turn my head. My father always claimed we were Indian, that we would never betray a friend. But Grandpa was dying that night, and we would go home then. They knew I was out on the porch with a need for dark and quiet. They wouldn't come out even if I stayed all night. And I liked how we were. When Father came to the door and nodded once, I knew what it meant to him. Maybe no one would ever have died if I hadn't turned my head. 16 ¦ The Missouri Review ...