A gentle breeze made its way through the cemetery trees,
and her hair.
She stood shocked among the sea of people, watching her mother descend
into the ground.
Disease or not, this reality hadn’t set in.
That’s when she realized: secretly, every daughter hopes their mother has to bury them.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the green hills of West Virginia.
Walter emptied the urn into the Grand Canyon.
They’d planned to retire and travel. Now Ruth flew solo: her particles frolicked between sun and shade, lingering to say goodbye before their exodus.
He shuffled back to the truck and pondered the drive home to Minnesota—then steered south towards Phoenix.
Joe Lunne wrote this story.
At twelve you expect nothing wonderful to come of a death. You close your door to contemplate him—all of us—going, and sob.
A knock startles you. Your aunt.
She lays a book on your bureau. “She thought a lot about death.” She leaves you alone with Emily Dickinson.
Several of Pamela Hobart Carter‘s plays have made it to Seattle stages. She also writes short books in easy English for adults.