We were planting it in memory of Florence.
Jocelyn stood beside me, looking healthy and radiant, bouncing a giggling, one-year-old Dexter on her hip. His grayish-blue eyes—my eyes—sparkled with innocent mischief as he reached for the fluttering green leaves of the sapling. Mrs. Mabel stood nearby, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, holding continue reading …