He worked his small patch in the Smokies with his two boys. Together with his wife they led a quiet and unremarkable, rural life. He was a simple man with basic wants and desires. He often told his family that when it was his time, all that he wanted was a plain pine box and to be covered by six feet of the very earth that he worked these many years. They of course accommodated him on that cool October day. The welt smarting on his forehead marked where his oldest son had cold-cocked him, knocking him out, didn't trouble him near as much as the restrictive confines and retreating oxygen of the pine box and the sounds of soil hitting the nailed shut lid.
Michael J. Solender's work can be found in many places across the web, but his home is at the NOT.