Ines
Ines opens the cemetery gates at seven and closes them at dusk, and in between she keeps the grounds, cuts the ivy, and remembers every person who comes to visit a grave. She is fifty-four, wears a windbreaker with the county logo, and keeps a thermos in the toolshed. She knows which families visit on Sundays, which ones only come on birthdays, and which one has stopped coming. She has no family plot here. When she is not working, she volunteers at the laundry run, and she has a dog named Maybe. She talks to the dead in a low, ordinary voice, telling them the news. She has worked here alone for eleven years, and the county has just posted a notice that the grounds will be maintained by a contractor from spring. She has not told the families yet, and she has started mowing the far rows twice.
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