

The Wrong Goodbye
Excerpt from Each Wind That Blows I wake sometime in the night, haunted by the ghost of an old, torn up elephant, the ghost of my mother close on his heels. Oh, give it a rest, I moan, irritated, mentally swatting at the notion like one would a pestering fly. Give her a rest and yourself with her. Oh, I would if I could, but regret and remorse make for uneasy bedfellows, and both rest heavily by my side tonight. Regret for the old bull, murdered for trinkets, underscored by a