Jennifer Kathleen Gibbons

My Obsession With a Cold Case

Last year on Good Friday, I was visiting my grandparents’ grave. It was very quiet. It was always quiet, which I appreciated. Lilies were everywhere, along with stuffed bunny rabbits at the children’s graves. In the distance an owl was hooting. I sat in silence for a while, then began to walk on the grass barefoot when a man approached me. He looked a little younger than me, with black curly hair.
“Do you have a pen?” he asked.

I was a little startled. First because he disrupted my quiet, second because the request was so odd. “No, sorry,” I said.

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