Funeral — Helena, South Carolina. Robert Frank. 1955
"You finna share that?"
Shit. I been caught.
"What?"
He raised his eyebrows and smirked: "Man, you finna share that with me?"
With you? "Uh, yeah… man." I gestured with my head to sit on the log beside me as I took another drag with pinched eyes. He sighed, hiked his trousers up a bit and sat beside me. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one arm and took the joint from me with the other. I was impressed by how long he held the smoke in before billowing a soft, sweet cloud from his lips as sweat collected on his almost-mustache.
"What happened?"
He passed it back.
I paused, but took another drag as he stared at the crowd in the field before us. I struggled to hold it in as long as he had, only managing to choke myself a little.
"My baby brother."
He breathed deep again, this time just the thick, heavy air. He took it from me and closed his eyes for this one. Even the muddy water in the creek behind us crawled by. Not a single leaf strayed from its place, stranded in solid space.
A hum emanated from deep inside a woman's gut. The agony on her face was enough to kill any man who saw her; but she kept her back to the crowd. I still don't know if he saw her. There was no real silence but the only sounds were the burning paper in my hand and the quiet, hungry sobs of the crowd.
"Thanks."
I nodded back at him, confused as he ambled away, stepping dramatically over skinny sticks as if they were two-foot high picket fences; then he disappeared into the crowd.
I tried again to hold it in as he had and, as the burn escaped my throat, there was an eruption from the other side of the cars. The crowd had congregated into the center of the field and the music that geysered out of the ring of shiny black cars could have resurrected the South.
I laid back on the log and spread my arms out to let the heat escape my chest.
I never felt so far from death in my life.