It was more of a winter than a winter ought to be. A cold shroud of snow and ice fell from a dark gray blanket of hidden sky and seeped deep into the marrow of men in foxholes. It seemed to most that hell had finally frozen over, especially when a German ghost army slithered in through the Ardennes Forest, their 88s raining down fire and brimstone. The clackety-clack of Tiger and Panther tanks and massive, fast-moving attacks from Panzer and SS units caught the Americans by s

It was a blazing hot day. Maybe the hottest of the late summer of 1968. Vietnam raged on and a trail of body bags became tradition on the evening news. Unrest was everywhere. Unrest was me. I came to the address on the outskirts of my small Tennessee town because I was told to do so. For many, that makes no sense, as it was for me in the beginning. But the voice persisted, and over the last few weeks it became insistent. And I had to put an end to the haunting.

(Note: Names and personal details in this essay have been changed.) How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news — Isaiah 52:7 I am sitting on the cold brick-red tiles of the mudroom floor, putting on Helen’s shoes. I’ve gotten one of her indoor slippers off — velcro straps unpeeled, foot extracted. I cradle this foot in its pink woolly sock, ankle twisted at a slight angle, cramped, curled-up toes inside. I feel the squish of the foam toe-separato