No one ever tells you how hard it is to dig a hole. It’s not like in the movies, six feet deep with sharp corners. I tried to explain to Wilf but he’s hardheaded. I gave up explaining. Grandma has to go.

The first few inches are sandy. Once you are hand deep, the dirt gets hard. We had to switch from shovels to pointy trowels to cut the hard packed ground. Wilf and I went through Grandma’s tools again till we found what we could. Again and again, the trowel bounced off the ground. My palms ached. All of me started hurting.

Grumbling Wilf returned to shoveling. I stabbed; he shoveled. Then it began to rain and of course Wilf wanted to stop. I had to yell and Wilf started to cry of course. Softening the soil like Grandma explained, the rain will make it easier to dig. Grandma knew so much, practically everything. She was Wilf’s blood but grandma took me in when I was a little. She was always one to pick up strays that’s why she had a house full of relations and near relationship and of course me.

In silence we dug besides the new potatoes. Grandma said there would be less roots in this corner. Wilf is a year older than me but grandma always told me I had more common sense. Even with my job, Wilf’s SSI check, and the girls’ benefits, I understood that we needed grandma’s pension check to keep the house. Grandma knew she was sick. She explained to each of us what we had to do to keep going. But she didn’t have to tell me to look out for Wilf.

Auntie Carmen is taking care of Grandma. Elena even wrapped her in one of her favorite shawls. Sniffling Wilf sat by the makeshift grave. I tossed out shovelfuls of earth. Dirt rained down on me. Roots pulled at my shovel. I worked until I couldn’t see. Wilf patted my shoulder.

“My turn. I got you,” Wilf said taking the shovel from my hand.

Out of breath, I was going to argue. Wilf just climbed in and dug.