Aunt Fran sounded happier after she moved to Tucson. Lots of sun, she wrote in loopy letters that lilted across the back of a postcard. AND NO SNOW! Sure, it was 98 in April, but it was dry heat, no humidity.
In June, she shared a Facebook picture of her and her three kids lined up in front of a door, noses white with zinc oxide: It’s true! You can fry an egg on the pavement!
In August, she called to say was suffocating. That God was whispering to her.
The first of September, my father flew out and took care of it. The burials, the questions: Had she been troubled? What kind of mother would drown her kids?
The water was cold, my father said. It was so hot out.