Sublime

EVERY EVENING, at dusk, we began burning our things: old bank statements and diaries, Buddhist family altars, wooden

ichor

An older woman came forward to tell the story of her daughter, Chelsey. I heard audible sobs when she revealed—partway through her story—that she spoke on behalf of her daughter only because her daughter was no longer here. Chelsey had committed suicide, never having recovered from the damage of what Larry had done.