Against the backdrop of gathering storm clouds in the darkening sky, the jagged brown limbs of the leafless trees looked like the decomposing skeletal fingers of giants, reaching out from beyond their graves to drag unwary souls from the land of the living into the land of the dead. Max stood directly under one of those trees in the most isolated corner of the graveyard. In the years since he had escaped his father’s reign of terror, he’d made this pilgrimage every year. This would be his last. The feeble sunlight filtering through the leafless branches on this chill October afternoon was still strong enough to cast stark spidery shadows on his mother’s tombstone: DOLORES TILTON 1912-1954 Beloved wife and mother Peaceful slumber in life denied, She sleeps with angels by her side. He and his father had argued over the inscription. Max had not wanted “beloved wife” on there, because he’d never believed his father had loved her enough. As a compromise, Max had been allowed to write the verse.
