by Greg Walklin
They were waiting for us. Branches and leaves shifted in the wind, like the ashes were dancing or swaying to a hymn of praise. Because it was nearly noon, none of the Beatrice Home for Disabled Adult’s brick buildings cast shadows. Below the lot where we parked, the valley of soybeans and corn swelled and sighed. My parents opened the car door for Beatrice. Much later, when I entered college, the University campus would strike me as familiar, in a way I could not describe, but I would eventually realize that Avery Hall reminded me of the Home. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 