Aunt Bee takes us home
to bury Milo.
We put his bed, the one she
bought for him to use
in the backyard, in her car.
Aunt Bee carries him out to the car
like a baby, his black head twisting
right out of her arms so it hangs
down to the side.
His eyes are closed.
I sit with him in the back,
even though it’s my turn
to ride in the front. Charlie
sits in the back, too.
No one says a word
all the way home.