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

Rolando had already trimmed the bottlebrush, the strawberry blossoms like a cylindrical hairbrush. Honeybees, bumblebees, and yellowjackets assaulted the blossoms, and made his job difficult and dangerous. The yellow jackets would not be scattered or shaken off. They stayed, waiting for an opening. Whenever he worked against yellowjackets, something bad would happen. Rolando hated the mesh draped from his baseball cap to prevent the yellowjackets and bees from stinging his