I am very young, not yet five, yet I remember. The spoke-wheeled cars are gathered at the farm, the kitchen great with food, the shiny Delft, the women red-faced, cooking. At the back door, the roof of the old farm almost touches the ground; and the old man, heavy, red, has me on his knee. “Come up and see the pigs.” We walk outside, my hand in his, start up the hill to where the pigs must be. I see the door open on the stable, thin scatter of straw, the harness hangs, the slab walls eyed with knots, the shingle roof. There is the post and rail, augered and tapered, wood-heavy.

The old man stumbles, leans forward, starts to fall. His watch swings out, caught on its golden chain. His knees hit the ground, his belly, chest, his head. His hat rolls off. His hand has lost my hand. I kneel by his head, attempt to lift him, wake him. He does not move. I run, down to the kitchen. People are there, a woman flies up the hill, the men move heavily, urgent; someone leads me inside. “He’s dead.” They come in slowly, six men. The heavy, old man lies on the door.

A death fixes my memory, all detail bright. In dying, he gave me a print of yesterday.