Many thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers.
All those shootings in Norfolk. I hope you’re being safe. Mama texted.
Just over a week later I’m sitting on the rough stone fence outside the overflowing church, arms folded, my black dress absorbing sunshine, the unnatural heat of this late October day, while a chill still finds me.
Mama, Davey, Jane gone. The Montgomerys. Lucy. Old Mr. Wyatt. The Bean brothers.
A shadow falls over me. Jim and I share a glance, a silent surreal moment before a lone voice sings, “Going Home.”
A startling breeze shudders through sycamores.
I never thought I needed to tell Mama: Be safe.