Autumn in the Deep South wasn’t a celebration of the changing seasons–a riot of color–but a requiem of the dying summer played in grayscale.
The eve of the New Millennium was the era of “Jesus freaks,” of WWJD bracelets, & “True Love Waits” rings, & the dawn of the prosperity gospel.
Caitlin saw the elders like a box of chocolates—they looked uniform, nestled in their suits, but inside, they were unique & wonderfully made.
Though Caitlin collected her crushes like Barbie dolls, the thought of ever sharing her husband was like sharing her soda with her friends.
I said a little prayer to God this time, praying that my Mormon soldier wouldn’t forget me when he left this place.
Maxwell Manor was David’s estate. We had always been guests there, & I wondered if it would become our home now & inheritance later.
Knowing that suicide wasn’t the unpardonable sin she had grown up believing it to be would soon free Mother, as it would Patrick.
David could do Patrick’s temple work next year, finally releasing his spirit to marry another woman. The power had been his all along.
Mother & David became celibate in the shadow of committing themselves to the Church, as the sun of a spiritual new dawn shined upon them.