Gail Ponds-Posey sat
on the couch in the dark when the knockingstarted. It seemed strange to her that someone would knock, but withthis old house the bell couldn’t always be trusted.She sighed.Less than twenty minutes ago, the last of her mourners had left.These were the other women from the neighborhood who caredenough and knew how she felt. It seemed there were too many of them—women like her, in their forties,already dealing with too muchloss. She knew those her age who were grandmothers raising grand-kids in place of sons or daughters who’d gone off, not ready for the re-sponsibility, or come up dead.Now she’d lost one of her own boys in addition to her husband,a man not so unlike these kids today. He’d never been ready to raisea child, let alone
boys. Aldo had steadily drunk himself furtherand further into a stupor, lost too many jobs to keep track of. Finally she asked him to leave. Two boys was enough of a burden; a third,grown and old enough to know better, just couldn’t be abided. And so she did what she had to: joined the other women in beingalone in this world with her children. Whether the fathers had gone
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