Charlotte
Sunshine streams down to catch the droplets tipping every blade of grass. On the horizon, amid rearing mountains, clouds swirl and gather.
The tiny church is beautiful, set in neatly-mown lawns, edged with a white painted picket fence. Walls of slatted-timber boards, also painted white, house small gothic-arched windows, picked out in a blue to match the sunlit sky. The roof and the square steeple are slated with wooden shingles.
Beyond the fence, trees, larch and pine, dot rougher grass. One great yew spreads its branches over the ground, casting a shadowed green veil over the mounds and stones and crosses.
Mom leads the way, my father following her almost with reluctance. The rest of us; me with Cara, my Master and Georgie, Michael; we bring up the rear, speaking little, an
