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’ll go through the egg-freezing procedure that will give me the chance of maybe, one day, having a child.
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.