When the Bones Sing

by Ginny Myers Sain

I can’t say anybody blamed him for taking off. Twenty-three bodies in three years would be enough to send anyone running. At least anyone with good sense.

“You don’t believe that?” she asks, and I shrug. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Nana clicks her tongue. “You don’t believe in much, girl, and it makes me sad. You wasn’t brought up that way.”

“The best people are like stained glass windows, girl. When darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed by the light that shines from deep inside ’em.”

“It’s grief,” I realize. “That’s what connects us to them. To the dead. It’s loss. It’s sorrow. It’s grief.” “Clover women mourn deep,” Nana tells me. “We always have.”