I told them in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t sure of my directions and there was a good chance they would end up in the wrong place. I watched them until they disappeared from view around a sharp bend on the path...I never saw them again.
He was energetic for an old man and possessed an uncanny ability to leap and land safely from dangerously high places.
He said in a very stern and dismissive voice that it was “just for St. Patrick’s” but we knew deep down he was secretly giddy to be wearing a pop of color.
The depths of her sadness and impending death cast a pall over all the household. With the exception of Mai Lin, who was charged with bringing her tea and application of perfumed oils, no one dared go near her or lift their eyes to hers in a silent expression of condolence. The morning she died, a cold and unrelenting rain shed all the cherry tree blossoms, their pink petals strewn and muddied across thousands of puddles.
You can imagine our shock and surprise when we found the source of an unknown high-pitch buzzing. We told Billy not to touch it, but he didn’t listen. He was always an annoying kid, but we miss him.
For all the bastard’s lecture on guts and glory, there was no illumination of righteous victory glowing over our heads. All we felt hanging heavy in the air was imminent engagement with Death’s unholy realms.
Peggy Thompkins was known for telling outlandish stories―finding Confederate gold in the hollow of a tree, a past life as a Russian Orthodox nun who witnessed the coronation of Alexander III, an uncle who tried to drown her at the river. Who knows the truth, but I always found her quite believable.