Getting it Right
“My father died,” I told my grief group. “He taught me about cars. Even though I didn’t care about cars.”
There were nine of us in the basement of the church. We all displayed haunted looks on our faces. We sat in chairs in a circle. The floor was tiled with alternating black and white squares, like an infinite checkerboard. Alice, whose baby died, sat across from me and was clearly impatient with my story. I could see it as soon as I opened my mouth.
The ceiling above us was tiled with white squares, each one speckled with varying sizes of holes and stained brown in one corner where it looked like water had once leaked from the floor above where services were held on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. To get to this basement room we all had to descend some dark step
