![]() ![]() My mother talked quietly to herself, both hands on the wheel. ![]() We drove slowly, ice spattering the windshield. We traveled through the fierce shreds of a winter storm, following a highway north into the night. We left Cherokee County when I was young, and like our ancestors, my mother and I traveled out of the land with our clothes and food in sacks. ![]() The rest of us live on, burdened by what is inescapable. People kill themselves or they get killed. I should tell you this is not a confession, nor is it a way to untangle the roots and find meaning. It happened when she and I were living with a family in foster care, and though the details are complicated, I still think about her often. The period in my life of which I am about to tell involves a late night in the winter of 1989, when I was fifteen years old and a certain girl died in front of me. I have seen in the faces of young people walking down the street a resemblance to people who died during my childhood. ![]()
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