White Wine Won’t Stain – (prose -near the end)

Melodie was born that December. Dark hair and eyes. Just like me. Everything was different. She slept through the night. When she was a year old, we took Josh’s ashes and spread them around a circle of redwood trees overlooking the ocean. We took home a fallen twig, framed it in a shadow box, and hung it in my study.  Sometimes Sam and I sit in there together and watch Melodie play on the tire swing.

(added to outline)


One thought on “White Wine Won’t Stain – (prose -near the end)

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