In the few months before cancer took hold of my grandmother, she’d flown down the coast from New York to visit us for one last Virginia summer together. I was about ten at the time and old enough to know …
“The signs were there. We could’ve seen it had we chosen not to be blissfully unaware but, by the time we noticed, it was already too late…”
“The grave markers dotting the grass felt like constellations pulling us back into orbit, one tiny orange flag at a time…”
“A scream caught in my throat as I broke into a sprint toward him. Propane fumes tinged the air and red bloomed over us, a wildflower in winter…”
“I braced as we catapulted for the runway, jaw clenched, and thinking of anything but landfall. But the longer I stared at the mountain, the more I saw what kept me here to begin with…”
“I saw her charcoal hair streaming behind her, flowing freely in the breeze. I saw her laughing, bursting with life above all the forgotten things left buried . . .”
“Flickering face masks, vaccine hopes, and shifting guidelines had endlessly dictated the world for the better part of a year . . . I thought I was ready to rejoin the world…”
“With just a few steps into the scraggly brush, wooden trail-posts jutted out like spindly, kindred arms beckoning to wrap me in. You must be tired to be coming back, they seemed to be saying. We’ve missed you…”
“How did he choke you? How did he break your wrist? Did you try calling anyone? When did he start getting violent? Why don’t you move?”
“A man walked into an El Paso Wal-Mart, training his aim on families gearing up for back-to-school. Mothers were armed with carts with new backpacks, markers, glue, and notebooks.”
