The pictures on our bedroom wall each contain at least one memory—a captured spirit or ghost, if you will.
Probing my raison d’etre.
I wake in the bottom of an abyss, filtered blue light licking at the edges of the ice cliffs above.
It seems to her that humans have only one spring, one summer, one fall, and if they’re lucky — or not, depending on your perspective — one winter.
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One Hundred and Twenty Hours
One hundred and twenty hours after my mother took her last breath, we gathered around a deep hole and covered her casket in roses.