SHE SHOWED up at my door on Monday evening, the day after Christopher died, and when I saw her standing out there I could tell that she’d been crying. “You told me before that I could come and talk to you,” she said. “Well, of course you can, girl,” I said. “Come on in here.” I closed the door and led her over to the sofa and sat down beside her. It was only the night before when we were doing this very same thing, and it almost brought a chill to my bones, the very idea that we were almost going to relive it together. “Can I get you anything?” I asked her. “I got a little bit of coffee left on the stove, or I could heat you up a little water for some tea.” “No,” she said, “I’m fine. I just need to get away from that house.” “Well, Julie, you can stay with me for as long as you need to,” I said. I reached over and put my hand on hers, and when I did she took to crying. She tried covering her eyes with her hands, but it didn’t do any good. “You can bring Jess over here with you too.
What do You think about A Land More Kind Than Home?
