Miss Maisie make a mausoleum. Weren’t that just like she? Even in death, she lord it over Miss Hester.
But Miss Hester, she smile and sweep her patio; keep her place spick and span. She look from her door through the chicken-wire fence at goat and chicken and pickney playing on the grave.
“You don’ mind that your sister still have bigger house?” I aks.
Miss Hester laugh. “She cyan chase them animal out, now. She gone. And I outlive she.”