To Stand, You Must be Rooted (opens in new tab)

“What should we bring Pawpaw for dinner?” I asked Mama. Her bronze urn rested in the passenger’s seat, secured by the seat belt. Her ghost sat in the backseat, wearing the green skirt suit I’d buried her in, a thin blue aura haloing her body. We were driving from Birmingham to Pawpaw’s farm in Sweetcreek. The high-rises and billboards gradually surrendered to . . . The post To Stand, You Must be Rooted first appeared on Reckoning.