Don’t Pull the Irons

My grandmother died in February and left me forty acres of Arkansas hill ground, a farmhouse built in 1896, and a family cemetery swallowed by greenbrier.
There were seventeen graves inside the iron fence. There was one outside it. A rough fieldstone under the white oak read only "E.M. 1902," and beneath that a verse from Job: He that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.It was ringed by rusted iron stakes that the frost had pushed halfway out of the ground.
Every spring of her life, Grandma walked down there with a sledgehammer and drove those irons back in. She never told me…