“No mourners, no funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.”
Darkness enveloped the sky by the time I wearily pushed open my front door. Tranquil piano nocturnes lilted through the house, the sound track of my parents’ ritual on nights they didn’t patrol the mountain. Chopin in the air, a glass of wine in my mother’s hand or a tumbler of whiskey in my father’s. Tonight my father would be nestled in his leather chair while my mother roamed the forest near Haldis.