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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I grew up with food stamps, latchkeys, Lee jeans from an outlet, Campbell’s soup, three deadbeat dads, and a mother who wrote letters to a TV evangelist praying for a husband.