At the cemetery, my brother slam:med me against our mother’s headstone and hissed, “This is where you belong.” What he didn’t realize was that the other mourners were standing behind him, phones raised, capturing every cruel word.
The New England autumn had stripped the cemetery bare, leaving behind a solemn, skeletal beauty. The wind cut through the oaks, scattering crisp leaves across the gray grass. It was …
At the cemetery, my brother slam:med me against our mother’s headstone and hissed, “This is where you belong.” What he didn’t realize was that the other mourners were standing behind him, phones raised, capturing every cruel word. Read More