My father never shared with his family the story of the time he reeled in a 457-pound tuna.
“Femur, pelvis, flecks of skull—father’s remains are served in a silver tray.”
We had other places we called home, other cities and countries and people who weren’t present that we loved.
“My father was still making plans, and little plans were one way he expressed his love of life.”
In my frightened mind, so many people in my family had been reduced to that one word.
What I learned from her was that if you wanted to kill yourself, do it with no one around.
“I know that it is scary to say something. That it is easier to think it is none of your business.”
“Perhaps the four of us, our family, is the only good thing left after all the destruction.”
“What if Granny had grabbed a weapon to protect herself from the invisible people?”
When a hard line on intermarriage leads to exclusion.