Lonelyville has rains all year round. Drizzles, just enough to keep our sadness from running dry. My father lived and died in infamy here; fifteen murders to his name.
“Sins are catching up with us,” my gran says. “Your father’s.”
Us apples, my brothers and I, fell far from the tree, albeit not far enough for the sight of his sins. Not a penny to our name, nothing on the horizon, and questions of a thousand dreams.
Every day after Bible reading, I step out and face the grey skies. I beseech for rains, heavier—enough to wash away our sins.