Dented bucket lies on its side, slightly rusted, handle long missing, blackberry stains still visible from the many pickings for Aunt Jo’s cobblers. Rain-splashed, sun-scoured, the vagrant vessel hunkers in the dust, purposeless, sinking into its surroundings. The young cousins are all grown, all gone. There are no more small hands eager to carry the bucket to the garden, no tanned legs running with it to the creek for water. On Friday a bulldozer will level the barn and the chicken coop. The bucket will be flattened. All will be gone.