(You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?My problems?Yes.'And you'll give me answers?I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space.It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk.Ah, talk . . . He closes his eyes and smiles.Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.)