In the southwestern corner of Lafayette Cemetery, beneath blooming magnolia trees, stands an angel effigy above the Broussard Family’s moss-lichen granite crypt, engraved with fifteen family names, their date of birth, and death.
“So many in one tomb,” Mitchell states.
“It’s a custom in New Orleans,” I reply.
“Wow, and more are in that one,” he says, pointing at a neighboring vault.
Don’t point at a tombstone, my mind screams, heeding a childish superstition. If you do, a spirit will latch onto your soul. With a compulsive lift of my hand, I lower his forearm. Glimpsing his lifted brows, I shake my head. “It’s nothing, just superstitious nonsense.”
Don’t point at a tombstone, ,If you do, a spirit will latch onto your soul. “Unlimited interment is an old practice in New Orleans. They s
