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Julia and Jack
Julia I hate this place. As the movers scurry about, hauling boxes and expensive furniture under Jack’s watchful eye, I lounge in a deck chair with a glass of lemonade in one hand, trying not to cry. This whole place is ghastly, no matter where I turn. The landscapers had been out a few weeks earlier and had turned the backyard where I’m currently sitting into a patchwork of sod. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken, and the grass is now dead and lifeless. Beyond, the yard gives way to mud and marsh. Cypress trees rise up in gnarled fingers, their roots hidden by murky sludge. Insects whine and drone amid the greenish haze. I won’t even let myself think about those dreadful tombstones. Jack’s been arguing with the town for permission to remove the cemetery, but so far, he hasn’t been able to
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