Another week has come and gone. I finished the first draft of a novel I’ve been working on and I’m taking a little break before starting up the next big project. For me, breaks mean writing and working on short stories. And it’s from one of these that I’m drawing my six for this week.
The narrator’s wife had a cough in July. This scene takes place in the first week of August.
I stood in a pit of my own; dark, like the grave beneath her, only deeper.
I didn’t even feel stunned. That feeling had already come and gone three weeks before, when I sat with my wife of nine years and we listened to a doctor too young to know he shouldn’t cry in front of his patients. The “why” and the “what did we do wrong” were far behind me when the other mourners made their way out of the cemetery and I watched Mattie’s light blue casket descend into the ground.
I wanted to follow it.
Part of me did.
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