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the horses; making a cake for her brother Melvin’s birthday; and visiting Grandpa’s grave.
    When the farm chores were complete, we made Melvin’s cake. He preferred strawberry and Nana not only made his cake from scratch but she also filled it with her own homemade strawberry jam. Somehow she thought it would be a good idea to kill two birds with one stone and ride the horses over to deliver the cake.
    When I asked her why we were making a cake for Melvin and not both Melvin and Marvin, she said that when the twins were younger, they insisted that their parents celebrate their birthdays separately just in case they got any wild ideas about combining birthday presents. Marvin’s favorite cake, a lemon treat so sour nearly no one could stand it but him, had been dropped off the week before.
    Nana inexplicably determined that I, the less experienced rider, should be the one to hold the confection on the trip. Though the cake was pretty much bombproof, tucked safely into her old-school plastic, hand-me-down cake container from the 1950s, I still worried that I’d, at best, mess up her frosting or, at worst, drop it in a pile of cow patties.
    Somehow I managed to keep my hands on both the reins and the cake and we made it all the way out to Melvin’s house on the far edge of the property without incident. After the inevitable hour-long visit with Melvin’s family, the polite inquiries about his kids and grandkids, Nana’s proud displaying of her newly graduated granddaughter, and the exchange of various seedlings and return of a few salad bowls, we were finally on our way home.
    When I asked Nana if she wanted to go directly to Grandfather’s grave, which was close enough to the house on horseback, she shook her head. “He likes it when I get dolled up,” she said.
    We headed home and returned the horses to their stalls and since it had been a hot, sweaty, dog-bathing kind of day, I headed to the shower when I got back, too.

    After saying my hellos to Grandpa and replacing the dead blooms with the new ones we’d cut that day, I left her alone and stood under the shade of a nearby tree to wait. Once in a while I caught the sound of her quiet voice in the breeze as she spoke with her late husband. I wondered what she was talking to him about. Was she sharing what had happened in her life since she last visited? Was she telling him how much she missed him? Or just that she loved him?
    I ran through the things I’d said to Amon and regretted that he hadn’t heard me say I loved him. He should have. It should have been the first thing I’d said. Instead I’d just asked if what I was seeing was real. What a waste. I’d squandered an opportunity to really talk to him and instead I’d just pestered him with questions. What was happening and why it was happening wasn’t as important as telling him how I felt. Next time, if there ever was a next time, I’d tell him I loved him first.

    As I climbed into bed, I knew that Nana was right. Living your life as best you can and working hard could help numb the sting of losing a loved one. I dug the heart scarab Amon left me out from my bag and rubbed my fingertips over it. The green stone twinkled as the light from my lamp reflected off it. It was warm and there was a slight pulse, like the faint beat of a heart, emanating from within. I pressed my lips against the stone, wishing it were Amon’s golden skin instead, and then placed it over my heart, the position Anubis would have left it on when preparing Amon’s mummy.
    Yanking the covers up to my chin, the bottom tucked in tight, I folded both arms across my chest, palm over the precious jeweled piece, and wondered if this is what it felt like to be mummified. Despite my morbid thinking, it wasn’t long before I drifted asleep, fingers clutching the scarab, but instead of meeting Amon in my dreams as I hoped, I was startled awake by a bright light and a deep, resonating voice. “It is time for you to arise, Lilliana