Cold Sassy Tree

by Olive Ann Burns

He looked over at me. “Will Tweedy, git on yore knees, son. Hit’s time to pray.” I knelt down on one side of the bed and Grandpa on the other. Holding Granny’s right hand, he rested his bowed head wearily against the edge of the feather mattress. Then for all the world like we were at testimonial time at the Baptist church with forty-five people listening besides God, he commenced to pray. The way Grandpa prayed wasn’t like other people prayed. You’d of thought God was an old crony of his instead of somebody who could strike you down dead if He had a mind to. “Lord?” he began, then stopped to honk his nose into a handkerchief. “Lord, I’m tempted to ast You to make Miss Mattie Lou well, like You was one a-them Atlanta doctors, or maybe Santy Claus and her a Christmas present You could give me if’n You jest would. I know Thou don’t mind me hopin’ she’ll git well, Lord, or wishin’, but hep me not to beg You to spare her. . . . Oh God, You know my sin!” he cried suddenly. His voice had an awful sound, like he was about to break half in two. What could be his sin? Granny’s harsh breathing and the hushed voices in the parlor filled the silence. Finally he went on. “If’n she lives, Lord, I’ll be thet thankful. If’n she don’t pull th’ew, I ain’t go’n say it was Thy will. You wouldn’t kill her, Lord, to punish me. . . . Hep me remember my faith that Yore arrange-ment for livin’ and dyin’ is good. Hit ain’t fair or equal, Lord, but it keeps thangs movin’ on. Hep me not forgit my fai...