In the hush of the late afternoon, between surges of customers, they always came in bunches, like bananas, Henry approached Mr. Hairston where he stood at the window, commenting sourly as usual on the people passing by. 

"Do you know anything about monuments, Mr. Hairston?" Henry asked. 

"What kind of monuments?" the grocer asked absently, still looking out the window. 

"Monuments for a cemetery," Henry said. 

Looking with narrowed eyes at Henry, the grocer said, "What's all this about monuments? Or is it an excuse to stop working for a minute?" 

Warmth flooding his cheeks, Henry picked up the broom and began to sweep the floor, although he had already swept it. 

"Okay, okay," Mr. Hairston said. "Put down that broom. Sweeping a clean floor is a waste of energy better spent elsewhere. And I remember now, your brother is dead, and the monument is for him, am I right?" But no apology in his tone  or manner. 

Nodding, Henry said, "My mother and me, we're planning one for his grave. What I'd really like is to save up and buy one for him myself." Impossible, of course, but nice to think about, to even say aloud. 

The grocer turned back to the window, as if no longer interested.