I wonder sometimes if the people who died in front of the gun I held will gather around my deathbed, perhaps to forgive me, perhaps to walk with me to the place dead people go. But I know this about the dead. They are not gone. They turn into a vapor and slip through the stones we pile on them and suddenly appear like elves in the trees at twilight. I do not want this to happen to my friends. They are very good people and have made my life worth living.
