It was the bone-chilling Northwest winter of 1994 when I stood with my shaky hands folded before Granddad’s grave. I stared at his name with a million things on my mind. His name was Shawn Black. Even during prayers with Mom, I didn’t close my eyes; I was always thinking, eyeing everyone else’s closed eyes, wondering what they were hiding from God.
(© 2020 AC)
(Erica Orloff edited this short story.)