Ashes to Ashes
We all knew my aunt Mary would die young, like five of her siblings. Her chosen method was a speedball.
The email was from my father, five thousand miles and eight time zones away. There was no subject line. “Mary is dead.”
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“Even in that happy space, doubt, disbelief, and a gnawing sadness started to swirl, rise, and create confusion.”
My kin may have erased themselves, but I won’t erase them. Just as I may be their wildest dreams, they are also mine.