He was his mother’s favorite child
who told her every morning she looked beautiful
who did chores without asking
who as a teenager heard voices

and he sometimes became violent
to himself or household objects
but more likely to throw you the finger
than a piece of gravel if he was agitated

His mother and father,
brothers and sisters fought his illness
his entire life to keep him home
where he could go outside anytime

and see the sky or walk
the gravel roads, pastures, and knobs,
plant raspberry bushes,
and eat home cooked meals

This time it was the favorite son
that his remaining siblings wrapped in quilts
to rest in a homemade coffin
next to a brother (my husband) and parents

We sang his favorite song, “American Pie”
but felt a kind of music dying
as the width of the family graveyard grows
in a field with room enough for me, a sister-in-law

Later, under dark clouds threatening rain,
I walked quickly across the field from the graves
toward the line of cars parked near the pond
and bunkhouse converted from an old school bus

but paused again to read the song title
my husband had painted years ago on the bus’ side:
“everybody knows this is nowhere”
and mourned again that nowhere else is home