stopped at a small cemetery.
Dad walked slowly between the headstones until he reached one beneath an old oak tree.
It read:
RUTH ANNE ELLISON
1952–1977
SHE STAYED.
Fresh red carnations stood beside the stone.
“Her sister still visits,” Dad explained. “Michael told me.”
He looked down.
“I’ve never been here before. I was too ashamed.”
I took his arm.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
He nodded.
“I think I finally understand that.”
He carefully knelt in the snow.
Then he removed the worn plastic wings from his
