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Crucifixion, and the whole Trinity knew that was going to happen, why did Jesus still have to die on the cross? It didn’t make sense to me.
    Once, I remember, we were walking home from services on Sunday, and I was terribly upset about the sermon. “I don’t think God’s being fair,” I said. “Asking a person if he wants to spend all eternity in heaven or hell is like asking a little boy like Ernest what he wants to be when he grows up. We can’t understand infinity. Why would God punish a little finite person forever? And what could a finite person do to deserve an eternal reward?”
    Alone, in what I still thought of as Mumma’s house, I could hear echoes of her exasperation with such questions. “Oh, Agnes,” she’d sigh. “The things that pop into your head and out of your mouth…”
    And that would be the end of that.
             
    The estate work seemed endless but, through it all, Rosie was nearby and her company made the tasks more bearable. Dachshunds like to burrow, and Rosie would scoop out a cave in a basket of quilt scraps or crawl under an errant sweater. She could be content for hours, fast asleep, but if I sat back in my chair or laid my head in my hands as melancholy or exhaustion overtook me, she’d hop right out, and I’d feel small, soft paws go pitty-pat on my knee.
    Pay attention,
Rosie tapped in dachshund Morse.
You aren’t alone. I’m here.
    I’d pull her up into my arms. She was the size and weight of a four-month-old baby, and it was comforting to hold her against my chest until I’d recovered my composure. “What do you think, Rosie?” I’d ask her then. “Shall we go for a walk?”
    At the sound of the word “walk,” she’d hurl herself off my lap with a steeplechaser’s leap, then pirouette at the doorway, delicate pointed nose tossed repeatedly in the direction of the road. As I put on my hat and gloves, she’d spin again to register her approval.
Good girl, Agnes! Yes, yes, yes! Most certainly! Time for a walk!
    Outdoors, she was joy embodied, trundling cheerily at my side, or veering off to track an elusive chipmunk, or falling behind to investigate some loathsome reminder of another animal’s passage. If you’d seen us, you might have rolled your eyes and thought,
How pathetic. An old maid and her spoiled little dog.
But Rosie was less a pampered pet than a prizefighter’s trainer, insisting that I do my roadwork twice a day, always pressing to go a bit farther.
    Though she never allowed me to sink for long into discouragement or loneliness, Rosie seemed to understand when I simply had to rest. Recovery from the Great Influenza was slow. The fever broke, the aching ended, breathing became easier, but for months afterward, one had hardly any mental energy and tired very easily. For a long time, I napped every afternoon with Rosie curled beside me, warm and sweet.
    There is a difference, I discovered in those shuttered hours, between mourning and grief. Mourning is soft and sad. I mourned my brother, Ernest, and Lillie’s husband, Douglas, and my two young nephews, especially. I thought of what those fine boys could no longer enjoy and of what they would never experience. To die so young—just as they had begun to fulfill their promise…My sadness was for them, but not much for me.
    Grief, by contrast, is sharp and selfish. The loss feels like deprivation, as though something rightfully one’s own has been unjustly stolen away. Oh, how I grieved for Lillian! I missed desperately the elements of surprise and gaiety she so often brought to my unremarkable days.
    Pull yourself together,
I could almost hear Mumma say.
Make a list. Get things done.
    Good advice, of course. Each morning, I wrote down my tasks for the day. Each evening, I crossed some off and added others, chipping away at the mountain of responsibilities, bit by bit. It was all I could do to take care of my own small affairs at my own slow pace. As I struggled through my duties, I thought