The Bluestone Review Spring 2022

When Teardrops Fall By Amy Dunford Funk I was driving home after midnight on October 13th, and I had a gallon of apple cider in the floor of my car. As I rounded a curve, the ci der turned over. I was fairly certain that the lid was on tight, but I pulled over on top of Church Hill to check. I unbuckled my seat belt and pulled the jug upright. A couple of large raindrops hit my windshield. Slight ly startled, I quickly buckled my seat belt and drove off. As I drove, I noticed that the full moon was shining brightly. The night was as light as day. The next morning when I talked to my dad on the phone, I told him about the raindrops. Dad was silent as if he were studying some thing, then he asked me to meet him at the cemetery on Church Hill that afternoon. Daddy loved to walk in old cemeteries. He enjoyed reading the epithets. He knew of everyone buried in Ivanhoe; he shared a story about most of the names found. I met my dad, and he walked toward the far end of the cemetery. He paused at the grave of Alfred Dunford. I had never heard the name, but I figured a Dunford, he must be kin. Alfred Dunford

October 13, 1900 October 13, 1918 Loving husband. Beside it was a smaller stone. Baby Dunford 1919

As I stood studying Alfred’s headstone, the date hit me. October 13th. This young man had died on his birthday one hundred and one years ago. A chill ran across my spine. My dad looked me in the eyes and nodded. I saw why he had brought me there. Daddy pointed to a more modern stone in the plot. Josephine Collins Dunford February 21, 1902 August 15, 1982 Rest in peace. I remembered seeing Ms. Josephine as a child. She gave me can dy at church. She was always so sweet to the children, and we loved her.

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