My Granddaughter Asked Me to Stop Sending Her Father Money and to Follow Him

I expected. I brought my palm to my face.

Coffee.

And underneath that, cinnamon.

My knees went soft. I sat down heavily at the table and stared at the contents of my palm. Coffee grounds, speckled with cinnamon. No fragments of bone. No pale ash. No trace of my daughter.

For seven years, Gloria had kissed that urn. For seven years, I had stared at it the continue reading …