Be careful what you shoot at...

There was a few moments of quiet. We were almost to the road.

"Can ya tell me about her," I asked.

"What do ya wanta know?" Haint asked.

"What was she like." I waited for history to be unfolded. I waited for deep truths and profound insight.

"She was a whiney little brat," Haint said.

I was stunned. I got defensive.

"What do ya mean?" I bristled.

"Well, she was five last time I saw 'er..."

"She wasn't a brat, Homer" I hissed. I didn't even know the woman except by a picture. But Haint had been more blunt than I appreciated.

"Well I thought she was," Haint said. "But then I never had kids a my own." Haint got quiet. "M'wife died when she was 22. Some kinda fever..."

There was a long pause.

"I think yer grandmaw was spoilt."Haint seemed more subdued. "Richard called her Nan-sa-kath mosta th' time... I swear he thought the sun revolved around that child. Took 'er most places with 'im. They were talkin' 'bout skoolin' 'er las' time I was by... Skoolin' a girl in these parts. I thought he was touched in th' head."

We were at the road. It was close to 8:30. And I was trying to figure out again how to part company with a ghost. We'd both been quite for a few minutes.

"This yer car," Haint asked. We were standing by my rusting, 12-year-old Subaru.

"It got me here," I said.

"Ummm." We listened to the birds for a minute. "Well, I gotta find m'grave," Haint said. And he turned and started walking back the way we'd come. Soon he was gone.

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