And then she grew introspective and solemn. “You know what’s weird about that picture?” she asked me. “It looks like he’s waving goodbye,” I answered. “Well, yes, but what I was going to say is that years ago, when he was on what he thought was his deathbed and he was in so much pain, he looked at me and squeezed my hand, and said, ‘Baby, I want to go home.’ And I said, ‘I know you do, dear.’” She wiped her eyes as she spoke. “He said, ‘No, I want to go home.’ So I hugged him and I said, ‘I know what you meant, dear.’” My mother grabbed my hands and told me that this is what he had said next: “When that time comes, I’ll be there— just across the river, where the fruit grows. I’ll have a line out, and I’ll be waiting.” In Memoria: Kenneth Ray Thies December 14th, 1950–April 8th, 2015
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