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In the fall of 2002, my grandfather passed away from a 

sudden heart attack.   I was seven years old and my sister 

was four.   I don’t remember much about that day except 

that, while everyone else was in mourning, my cousin and I 

were actually having a fun time.   It sounds really bad to say, 

but we were just kids.

My cousin, Ashley, and I were always close growing up; she 

is only a year older than me.   We were always playing 

outside, usually at my grandparents’ big farm house.   Their 

house sat on a hill and had a huge yard with a hay field 

between the back yard and the forest.   My cousins, my 

sister, and I were always running around outside and 

walking across the field.   My grandparents’ house was the 

main spot for our family get togethers.   That day, though, 

everyone was gathered at the church down the road.

The church was an old, white building that stretched 

parallel to the road.   Behind it was a small, dirt parking lot, 

and beside it were huge, beautiful oak trees.   I only 

remember being inside the chapel for a short time; after the 

service everyone gathered in the basement because that was 

where all of the food was.

I can’t remember exactly how my cousin and I ended up 

outside, but we were wandering around between the trees and 

the church building.   Even though it was a sunny day, it was 

autumn and crisp enough that we had to wear jackets over our 

dresses.   At one point, we walked up to the small basement 

window that looked into a kitchen area, and peeked inside.

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