By Jason M. Rubin
Katie watched silently as her mother—thin, frail—knelt before the granite marker. Unable to read, the child somehow knew that the shapes chiseled into the upright slab were names.
Her mother’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
Then her mother rose, steadying herself with one hand on the cold, grey bookend of life. In her other hand was a small rock. Katie watched curiously as her mother placed it on the marker. The dull crack of stone on stone startled her.
Her mother asked, “You’ll visit me someday, won’t you, Katie?”
Katie picked up a rock. “OK,” she said.
Oh, Katie, what are you thinking?
Chilling. Good job.
Makes one think, there must be another way. It’s good to make us think, Jason.