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Difficult Terrain continued

"I'll stay here," I answered in a stupor, hearing her but responding to her first comment. The early fall sun was warm but not too hot. The gentle breeze brought a fresh tinge to the pungent scent of mature foliage expecting the first frost, but the smell of cedar hung close to me and overpowered every other aroma.

I sat on the cedar bench and admired the handiwork of Scott, Paul's son, and Glenn, his son-in-law. My feet barely hit the cement beneath the bench. A little too high, maybe, I thought. And, a little shallow in the seat.

A bit of sawdust, patches of bare earth and nuggets of excess cement made the bench stand out from the thicket behind it but not as much as the sloping rectangle of clipped grass that ran down to the stream and to a tree-line view of the sun in the West. The fallen tree to the south blocked the old cow path down the steep side hill leading to the site.

Spectacular view but sequestered. It was the spot Paul had chosen. And, his style.

The sun was making me drowsy, so I laid full length on the narrow bench, looking up at the leaves against the blue, hazy sky above me, knowing he was close by. Just two months before, his wife, Cindy, had sprinkled his ashes in criss-cross fashion up and down the hill-side clearing, as the family watched along the stream below.

Dead at 47. I repeated the four words to myself, as if that would have made them more real. He had fought the brain tumor for 12 months, but, toward the end, he was frail and even started to walk like I do -- in an unsteady gait and shuffle that betrayed his pretense of balance.

And, now I was laying there with him in his resting place of peace. I closed my eyes.

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