My mother buys the wood, and nails the form together and lays the form on some gunny sacks and mixes white cement powder from a big, big sack with water, mixes it in the wash tub.

"More water," she says to me. I hurry to the porch, carry out as much as I can in Grandma's 10-gallon slop pail, the water sloshing over the top.

"It won't work," Grandma says again. Grandma is stout and sunburned and her face is always like she has a headache.

"It's not going to work," Grandma says.

She’s right. Three times it fails. The cement doesn't harden all the way through, and when Mama pulls the form off, the cement cracks.

"Ah, sugar!" Mother says.

The smell of the cement tickles my nose. We stand there looking down at the failure. The dogs watch from a safe distance.

"I guess you're right," Mama says finally to Grandma. Mama sighs. Grandma doesn't say anything. Almost sunset. Cooler now.

Grandma looks sad. This is for her husband, my grandpa.

"One more time," Mama says. She and Grandma are tired and blue. So we carry out more water and Mama mixes the last of the cement powder.

"Won't be enough," Grandma says, frowning. The sun is going down. Shadows. I am tired. Everyone is sad and tired and angry.

We go in to the house to wait for it to harden. I sit out front of the house on the edge of the porch.

"Waggles," I say to my dog.

She comes to me, looks me in the eyes, puts her paw up on my lap.

"Good doggie," I say.

The evening breeze is starting in the walnut trees. A shiver, a sigh. Green walnuts fall to the ground.

It is dark when we go out to check the tombstone. Grandma brings the lantern.

"Mama?" I say.

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe. We can hope."

When we get there, Grandma turns up the lantern light. Shadows. Mama gets down, pauses a moment. Is she praying?

She releases the form. We hold our breath —

"It's holding! No cracks, yet!"

"The inscription," Grandma says. She is breathing hard.

Mama hurries to the house, then returns with an old knife.

Grandma holds the lantern near. Mama very carefully, very slowly — I can hear Grandma and Mama holding their breath — slowly, carefully, she carves Grandpa's name into the hardening white cement.

"The dates," Grandma says, her voice tight —

Mama carves the dates in. Birth — 1881. Death — 1928.

The next morning we come out.

"It's hard!" Mama says, her face beaming. I haven't seen her so happy for a long time.

I’m happy too. For Mama. And the tombstone. Even Grandma smiles a little.

"And no cracks, it didn't crack," Grandma says. I'm happy for Grandma, too.