his house (veterinarian appointment Tues 1 pm, that cat will be the death of me) , and because of the shaky hand he writes them in. Â Because his house is for sale and Iâm guessing this was the last time weâll ever make sauerkraut together. Because his old cat Tigger died the day before I went over there to make the sauerkraut. Because Tigger is buried with an upside-down washbasin to mark his grave under the apple tree that Grandpa tried to splice with pear. Â Because the man poured pickle juice on his fried rice when we ordered Chinese after making the sauerkraut. Because I tried it too. And it was good. Â Because the first year I made sauerkraut with him I told everyone, Did you know thereâs no vinegar in sauerkrautâonly cabbage and salt, fermented. Because no one knew. It was always news. Â Because we have the same taste for vinegar. Because I donât speak Low German or German or Ukrainian or Russian or Dutch. Â Because the lantern that used to light his way to the barn for morning chores now hangs unlit in my living room. Â Because he bought thirty cabbages and bragged to the Mennonite woman who sold them that his granddaughter wanted to learn sauerkraut. Â Because she was impressed. Â Because he wouldnât tell me when Iâd stomped enough juices out of the cabbage with the wooden cudgel. I had to guess for myself. Because he used to have Polish farmhands who made huge wooden kegs of sauerkraut. Because theyâd walk on it in their bare feet. Like Mediterraneans walk on grapes. For wine. And Iâm crying now because Iâm such a sad sorry sap and Iâm about to get my period and Iâm behind on my rent and Iâm back in the pantry kneeling in front of the sauerkraut scooping the scum into a blue plastic cup holding my breath in the stink and my nose is running and Iâm wiping it on my sleeve and trying not to sob too loudly as the plumbers gather up their tools below. Â
things buried with us
1  The clicking sound  her knees made  whenever she bent  or straightened. Â
2  One Saturday afternoon  in front of the general store  a starling swooped close,  and she was not startled.
3  When pregnant with her first child, she had  a womb-name for it which she never told anyone  (though once quite near her  time she wrote it down in pencil  on the back of a recipe card  as she waited  for her pie to set).
4  He bought an old violin once because he had  a certain idea of himself. It buckles slowly, stringless in its black-lacquered case in my closet.
5  Long ago a secret formed  a lump in his throat that gradually  became part of his profile. She also Â
had a secretâwho knows  if it was the same as his or  different or somehow  both. Whatever the case, over the years  it was incorporated into how she held her face  so when you see her in her coffin you will barely  recognize herâforehead, cheeks and jaw  unclenched; face slack, loose, almost  universal; the secret  gone before her into the earth. Â
6 Â There was a certain teacup, a tallish lily of the valley cup, its silhouette like a fleshy neck smoothed out by the chin held high. Â
It was the one she was drinking from when the hospital phoned with the news of her fatherâs death. Â
She placed the cup at the back of the buffet, behind the gravy boat, Christmas platter and crystal pickle tray. Â
Years later, when the house was sold, the contents auctioned off, the buffet and china cabinet cleared out, the auctioneerâs assistant picked up the cup, wondered ever-so-briefly why  it was separate,  then put it together with the rest. Â
7  Almost everything is buried with us: once she ate a shallow bowl full of wild  strawberries that took her the better part