Early morning. Bubbie’s grave is as new and fresh as the dew on it. No grass grown, no time yet passed, the wound still open.
Bertie bends over and places a photograph of a dark-haired woman and three smiling children on Bubbie’s grave. It is a Fall day, bright, blue, crisp as an apple.
“Zacklinacz from Yugoslavia…her Boran died in a coal mine. Three children.”
Another picture is thrown down. “Theresa, Ukranian. One boy, he wants to build a company. Based on the quality of his farm’s ...
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