The problem was that house, too many memories. Momma couldn’t walk the stairs without crying “I wish it had been me instead.” When she said that, my grief curdled into something raw and sour. I, too, cried every time I passed his room, now empty, and thought about how sweetly his little fingers used to wrap around my index finger as if he was programmed to do that.
“Your brother’s soul is in heaven,” Momma said.
“Where’s his body?”
“In the ground.”
“Could I visit him there?”
“When you die, not...
