January House:

Ruthie flies over the rocky beach. Yawning, I follow, careful not to roll an ankle. Dad’s ghost is everywhere on this beach. His laughter bubbles up from the cresting waves, he sings Merle Haggard ballads on the sea-salt breeze, and his unrestrained joy lives on in my daughter, scouring the stones for a glimmer of glass.

Christy Hartman Avatar

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