The days turned to weeks. The weeks became months, and the months moved on into the year. Life moved on.
Six years have passed since Lemmon returned home with his seven-year old grandson. Life and all its rigors continued for them, good and bad. Each passing day appeared to cauterize their wounds—they shed few tears for the past and it came to an unspoken point when they were carrying on about their life without reflecting pause at all. Lemmon had another funeral done, this one for his daughter. The affair was private, featuring him, Randall, and his friend Marley in attendance. He dug a hole beside his wife’s gravesite with a tombstone erected for. They each said a short prayer, then Lemmon gave the urn to Randall to deposit in the earth. So went the death of their pain. Neither could ha
