“You ain’t heard? I figured your mama would’a said.”
“No, not a thing – do tell. Last I heard he'd gone up to college up somewhere t' Arkansas.”
“He come down with a bad case of poetry while he was there, so they brung him back.”
“Oh, sweet Lord …”
“I know …”
“But they can cure dat now, cain’t they?’
“They tried ev'thin' – even a faith healer up ta Alexandria.”
“Naw.”
“Yessir, two in fact. A brother-sister team - the ones on the tv.”
“Done no good, though?”
“Tragic. Two fellas in wheelchairs got up, but Milo just kept at the poetry, and nary a rhyme in the lot. The fam'ly talked to a gris-gris wumman ova by Lafayette, but that come to nothin'. I tell you true - in the end, they even tried whiskey.”
“Naw! Though, I hear that sometimes helps in desp'rate cases.”
“That’s what we thought, but his mom’n’em come back and said it only made things worser for him.”
“Faulkner Syndrome?”
“That’s kinda what the doctor figgered, 'cept with poems instead.”
“So …”
“What else could we do? We took him out by our meme’s old farm~”
“And …?”
“Cousin Berry put him down. We buried him right there, on the spot, right under that big ol' oak. I think you know it. We all useta swing on it as kids. Anyways, we give him a nice little ceremony. His mama planned it out.”
“Oh, f'sure. Miz Emma always had good taste.”
“She brought his seersucker along, just so's he’d look his best. Didn’t quite fit, so they cut it up the back.”
“Still …”
“Oh, yeah, we done right by him.”
“Y’all’s good folk, I’ve always said that.”
“Thanks, say, I bet them boudins is ready.”
“Yeah, you rite. Ring dat bell and hand me 'em tongs!”
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