The gate still squeaked, but barely. The old, stooped man swung it open and closed a few times to be sure. It wasn't much of a squeak but he would have to fix it. He’d been doing this year after year, fighting the elements to keep it right. Sighing, he set down the metal tool tray in the long weeds and knelt in front of the ancient wrought iron gate contemplating the hinges. The noon sun beat down on his shoulders mercilessly as the cicadas sang and rattled in the tree above the small family plot. A single ancient limestone marker shared the small square of earth with a stunted oak whose shade stopped selfishly at the very edge of the fence. Inside the metal border looked cool and inviting. Even the grass inside was short and green when the rest of the field was brown with thirsty weeds that hissed when there was a breeze. He swatted at a deer fly that landed on his neck.
