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Bereaved Stories


Empty Kitchen

My father spoke of my mom's love of the sunrise at her funeral, thus I dedicate this to her.

“Shoot!” The exclamation punctuated the sound of pottery shattering. My neighbor, Karen had dropped a cup. It lay in shards across the hard kitchen tile. “Don’t worry, it’s just a cup. I have others,” I say, fetching the broom and dustpan. “I am sorry, so...