The pictures on our bedroom wall each contain at least one memory—a captured spirit or ghost, if you will.
One hundred and twenty hours after my mother took her last breath, we gathered around a deep hole and covered her casket in roses.
The water shimmers baby blue beneath a blushing pink sky and it seems Bob and I are the only people on earth.
Sometimes you just have to reach for that box of shiny new colors.
Now, more than ever, I needed to go home to Mother.