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Dear Kayla,
I had this cat when I was a kid. Orange tabby, skinny thing, hated everybody. Except me. That cat loved me. I loved him, too, though I didn’t know it until he got hit by a car. Before that, I thought OJ was a menace. (That was his name, OJ. After orange juice. Not very creative, I know, but I was eight.)
Once the cat died and he wasn’t around anymore, I realized how much I loved him. That stupid cat had been my best friend, but I only realized it in hindsight.
Funny thing, isn’t it, hindsight? It’s memory, but with new understanding tacked on, so that the past means something different than it did before.
And the only way to find that meaning is to look for it.
Look to the past.
Dig up those graves.
Examine the bones you find there.
I’ve been doing my fair share of
