Just Dust

"It's just dust," he said, kicking the dry ground With a worn boot, Toe pointed cowboy style But with none of the flash. "This could be grandpa," he said, Shoulders rounded, eyes to the ground. "They didn't bury too deep in them days, And no boxes or vaults out here. He could've just rose up after a while. Could've just shook off the dirt And blown off west again, Just another dust storm Trailin' bits of himself behind. He wouldn't of thought twice About breakin' grandma's heart Just one more time." I watched the sun pick shadows Off his worn chambray shirt. He looked hot, weary, Big hand taking his frayed straw cowboy hat On and off and on, Either the fidgets or his way Of air conditioning his head, With its damp hair that could stand a cut. Suddenly he looked straight at me: Leather-tanned face That had run up some mileage; Pale eyes the worn blue of his shirt, Meeting my eyes then sliding his gaze Off into the dirt-colored distance. "You're the one's got all the degrees," He said. "Why do folks say 'just' somethin'? Like 'just dust' or 'just no reason'? Myself, I don't see justice is much involved." "I could make up an answer," I said. "I have no earthly idea. I just know we do." He snorted a laugh, Shook his head, Turned toward the house. "You just come on in, then" He said, something inside him Sounding a little less buried, His shoulders a little less hunched. "I'll just make us some cold sweet tea," he said. "That's just what grandma would've done." And then, just then, I knew it would be all right.