My father’s grave does not have a headstone. One might believe this is because we were too poor to purchase one or too heartbroken to consider carving such finality into granite. One might believe this is because he was not loved.

Perhaps one would think it’s because none of his children wanted to remember him.

All of these reasons might explain why he lies in an unmarked grave.

None are true.

We are not too poor.

He was not unloved.

There was sadness when he died, yes, but there was more relief in that finality.

And though it might be easier, his children do not want to forget him.

I remember. Every day, I remember. For I am one of these: my father’s children.

When I look at my soul, and see the black stains in it, I wonder if perhaps they are not stains so much as the shadows of him.

For as surely as I am alive and he is dead, his ghost would be one crafted of shadows. He would be that prickling at the back of your neck in the dark. That sensation of malevolent eyes on the knobs of your spine. He would not be the whisper of wind but the howl through barren trees.

Such is the way his memory haunts me.

I do not want to forget him, because without him, I would not be me.

I have found I like the shadows he left.

And how the shadows do distort.

How large a shadow can be cast by a man so small.

He was not small, not really– not in body. Only in mind.

And even this is a falsehood.

He was, in truth, a disturbingly brilliant man, warped and twisted by poverty and cruelty and liars who told him that because of his good looks and Christian values and dripping masculinity, he was better than others.

Better than everyone.

It was not so hard to believe, not for him.

I believed it, when I was a child.

When he was impossibly tall and strong and wise.

I especially believed it when he was kind.

When I remember my father, it is most often to remember his cruelty: his shadows.

It is easy to remember his hands.

The way they’d curl at his sides.

How they would stop just short of making a complete fist, but his knuckles would whiten as if they were clenched nonetheless.

It is easy to remember the flat of his thick palm striking my round cheek.

Not a slap.

His hands were too muscular for such a thing.

When his hand struck you, it was a punch, no matter if his fist was open or shut.

It is easy to remember this: the way his callouses scraped like little razor blades on soft skin to punctuate the strike.

But then, much harder to remember, is the gentleness of those hands.

The way he kept his fingernails perfectly manicured.

How delicately he would pluck just one cashew from the tin aside his favorite sitting chair.

When his hands signed my birthday cards, he always wrote the word Love in cursive, with a fat loop at the top of the L.

I remember well.

I remember that the only words in that loopy cursive scrawl among the many he wrote on my cards were my name, his name, and love.

It is harder to look at the dapples of sunlight breaking through the dark branches than it is to dwell in the shadows of him.

I cannot hate the man who made me climb mountains and then told me how proud he was as we stood at the summit, somehow larger than the behemoth hump of earth below our feet as we gazed into endless miles of forest—so impossibly big and small all at once. And then we’d sit, and he’d brush my sweaty hair back from my forehead and reach into his pack to produce a Snickers bar for us to share there at the top of the world.

How do I hate the man who taught me to ride a bike? Or who told the most miraculous stories as I sat on his lap. Or lifted me on his shoulder so I could peer into bird’s nests and behold blue robin eggs gleaming like opals amongst the twigs.

How could I hate the man who climbed onto the roof every Christmas Eve, so I might believe it was Santa stomping about for another year longer?

I cannot.

So, why, then, have none of his five children, who all share similar memories, bothered to do the small honor of having a stone carved for his grave?

It is not because we hate him.

Or even because we didn’t love him enough.

I remember.

And perhaps the reason I have not gotten a stone carved for my father’s grave is because I covet the memory of him.

Or maybe it’s to punish him.

Or myself.

Because logically, all that good he did could not hold a candle to the inferno of damage he dealt.

Perhaps I feel that in honoring him, I am dishonoring myself.

Perhaps I feel that a man such as him should be forgotten.

But I don’t forget.

Perhaps, I feel that it should not be me—the child he loved and hated most fiercely of all.

He told me, often, that I was the best of his children.

I have not told my siblings this. Our relationships are spun so tightly within the web of father’s dark heart, I worry they might resent me if they knew the truth.

Though, I do believe he said similar to the others.

Maybe we all carry the same secret.

He was open about the fact that one of my brothers was his favorite. He made no qualms about it.

“Pearl, if a parent tries to tell you they don’t have a favorite child, they’re lying to you,” he’d say.

I was not his favorite. He told me as much. But I was the best of them.

The purest of heart.

The most obedient.

The gentlest.

He told me.

He and I often had conversations the others were not privy to.

He was honest with me in a way he was not with my siblings. He showed me the bare face of his monstrosity. He owned it. He acknowledged his hatefulness.

He was unafraid to reveal the bald truth of himself to me because he knew I was powerless to do anything about it.

In a way, I respected him more for it.

If you’re going to be a monster, may as well be honest about it.

He told me, he was the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

But this truth also set me apart from my brothers and sister.

I’d always known what they were learning.

I’d always known that the evil in him outweighed the good–that he was past the point of earning absolution.

So perhaps, I feel it should not be me, who knew his truth so deeply. Who was not conflicted the way the others seemed to be.

It should not be me.

It should be one of the others who loved him well.

I did not even go to his funeral.

If I had, I would have made sure there was a stone.

But now the time has passed, and maybe it is just my fanciful heart speaking, but there is something poetic about that lack of stone.

These are the reasons I play at in my mind.

Reasons that might explain why my siblings and uncles and aunts and cousins haven’t managed to mark his grave properly, either…

But they are lies.

The reason I have not gotten a gravestone for my father is because I remember so much about what he was to me, but I do not remember what year he was born.

I have not had a stone carved because I am too ashamed to admit it to my siblings or my mother or my husband.

I have done the math, of course.

I am capable of research, of course.

I think I have it right, but I cannot ask them.

And, I do not want to relinquish this excuse.

I am ashamed.

And I think that’s how he’d want me to feel.

My father’s grave does not have a headstone.

Perhaps I will be brave enough to carve one next year.

People who say, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” in response to being uncomfortable in summer temps have never attended a Council of the Damned meeting. Heat is just one of the factors that makes these unbearable. I’ve been a member for some time now and still haven’t gotten use to the conditions.

The room smells of burnt hair. It’s poorly lit. Heavy, woolen drapes have never been pulled back so the windows have never been opened. Gritty dust clings to every surface. The constant sound of an unseen, leaking faucet reverberates across the barren walls.

Thirteen chairs are situated around the trapezoid-shaped table. Four occupy each lateral side while five are stationed on the longest parallel side. I’m in the tenth position. An elevated, over-stuffed throne covered with blood-red, crushed velvet and adorned with skulls is situated on the table’s narrow end.

The individual chairs are uncomfortable. There’s no contour to the seats. The unpadded backs extend up just below your shoulder blades and have irregularly spaced, knobby protrusions. The front legs are shorter than the rear ones by almost two inches. Arm rests are nonexistent. As you are constantly adjusting your posture, it’s impossible to remain in one position for any length of time.

Arriving council members gravitate to their assigned spots. Names are not used here. We are referred to by the corresponding number of our table position. Number One, to the throne’s right, is the designated secretary, hence the pen and paper in front of him.

On our chairs is an individualized list of things each of us are responsible to complete after the meeting. I pick up mine to read: Take Cerberus for a walk and clip his nails. Seriously? Again? I did these last week. Still have a torn rotator cuff and bite marks as proof. I despise that hellhound. Everyone is less than enthused with their assignments as well. We shift in our seats, miserably waiting.

The pair of large metal doors behind the throne open, accompanied by that distinctive creaking sound. Two imposing figures clad only in loincloths emerge. Their muscular bodies covered with sweat and soot. Their faces are obscured by burlap sacks. Narrow horizontal slits have been cut for the eyes. One is holding a scimitar. The other a glaive. I say to myself, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Suck-Up Twins.”

We immediately rise to attention with lowered heads. Our boss strides in with an oversized, almost cartoonish, pitchfork and occupies his designated place. He pauses for dramatic effect, then sits. Raising his hand, he quickly lowers it as a directive. We gingerly take our seats.

He bellows, “How long have you all worked for me here at Fallen Angel Enterprises?”

Attempting to interject some jocularity into the meeting, Number Nine replies, “Feels like an eternity.” Expecting an aggregate chuckle from her peers, Number Nine swallows hard when the room remains quiet except for the now amplified sound of dripping water. Our eyes focus on her.

With a tilted head, Satan turns toward the comment’s source. “It appears we have a comedian joining us tonight.” Nine does not respond. “Speaking of comedians, weren’t you the one who missed out on securing Bob Sagat’s soul?” In an attempt to divert the pending wrath, Nine stammers, “Ah, um...me...no, that was Number Twelve’s assignment.”

From a rush of adrenaline, Twelve sits bolt upright, his back pressing against the raised bumps, and defiantly counters with, “Excuse me, absolutely not. That’s incorrect. You might want to check the records as I was never notified of being the lead in that case. And, I don’t appreciate being thrown under the bus or...”

“Maybe Number Nine needs some time to work on her jokes,” the Prince of Darkness interjects. “How about a week in our,” creating air quotes with raised demonic fingers resembling dried twigs, “Day Spa.” A collective gasp resonates from us. “Percy. Melvin. Escort Nine to the lower level.” The burly duo step forward and grab her by the elbows. Still holding their armament, she is lifted out of her chair with ease. Number Nine offers no resistance.

Number Three purses his lips, which had been sewn shut after they removed his tongue. As the only member who has ever returned from a visit to the “Day Spa,” he knew what was in store for Number Nine. The next 168 hours will be unpleasant, even by Hell’s standards, for one of the Council’s newest additions.

Although we know what’s coming, the four of us don’t move until instructed, “Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen, shift one seat over to your left.” We oblige. Nine’s seat is warmer than I expected. Beelzebub then informs Number One to “Add ‘Find a replacement for Number Nine’ to next week’s agenda.” One obediently scribbles on the paper.

“Now, does anyone else have a witty comment they’d like to add for the amusement of the group before I continue?” Since all questions asked are rhetorical, no one speaks. “Great, let’s get on with the business at hand. Our numbers are dismal, our membership anemic,” Lucifer begins while referencing a spreadsheet. “For the first time in a while, we have ample room to move about down here. That’s bad. We need the misguided to keep us, ironically, out of the red. With talks of tariffs, the price of supplies to fuel our fire and brimstone are rising.” We nod in agreement, as per usual. Every statement during every meeting, whether based on reality or phantasmagorical, is responded to with agreement nods.

“Funding has dried up. People are finding their conscience. I thought AI would counter this but that hasn’t been the case. Sure, there’s the usual lost souls that have strayed way off the path. We’ll always have new arrivals from those who don’t think about the long-term ramifications of their actions.

“We’ve got to get back to some new, edgy advertising to attract the distractable. Using my name in ‘the devil may care attitude’ or ‘the devil is in the details’ phrases put me in the spotlight but soon became part of the common vernacular, like Band-Aid, Kleenex or Jacuzzi. They lost their uniqueness and became diluted from oversaturation.”

Both phrases were from the mind of Number Two, a senior member. He never got credit or even acknowledgement for either. I think these oversights still bruise his psyche.

Getting worked up, Satan continued, “And ‘YOLO’ was beneficial for us until folks started looking at it from the perspective of how they could make a positive difference in other’s lives.”

That was Number Eight’s contribution. Again, uncredited. Fun fact: Eight’s original anagram was YOLD, which stood for “Yo soy Oscuridad Lord Diablo” (“I am darkness, Lord Devil”) in an effort to grab a larger portion of the non-English speaking market share.

But some Gen Z temp mistakenly typed an O instead of a D in the press release. It wasn’t caught by the editor in time. So, when questioned about the mistake, they said it meant “You only live once.” Nobody has heard from or seen the temp and editor since.

Diablo continues his rant, “Just look at all who attended the Pope’s funeral. More than 250,000 faithful waited for hours to see him lying in state or attend his service. How did this happen?” Again, silence on our part. Satan warns, “Don’t make me be the bad guy.” I covertly roll my eyes. “Because I’ll be forced to if you all don’t start drumming up business.

“So, meeting adjourned. Help yourself to some tepid coffee and a moldy Danish as you leave. Don’t forget to complete those chores tonight. We’ll reconvene at 6:45 a.m. tomorrow so I can hear your ideas on how to fix our problem. Keep up the evil work. Now get the hell out and do my bidding.”

We shuffle toward the secondary exit with the common, unspoken thought - This meeting was yet another monumental waste of time since the gist of it could have been conveyed via email. But, as middle management, we understand our position in the company is to toil away. Our struggles, no matter how insignificant or long-term, are for the betterment of the whole.

Walking down the hall, we pass a doctor and nurse pushing a cart with a bottle of anesthesia, a scalpel and sutures heading toward the Day Spa. It’s going to be another long night, yet again, for the Council.

There is no more quintessential shifting of blame, shirking of responsibility, laying of fault at the foot of a convenient scapegoat than the devil made me do it.

Think about it: He created the world and called it good. But even a flame burns itself out in search of darkness. Everything has its opposite, even existence; although, full disclosure, we, He and I, have never experienced its opposite.

He created all that is visible to the human eye, and when his creation disappointed, He could not blame himself (God forbid...so to speak), and so, he revealed me. I mean, the Bible is His word, yes? So, He blamed Eve's choice (original sin indeed; more like original scapegoating) on outside influences rather than an intrinsic flaw or design defect.

Deflect.

Consider this: if humanity has free will and makes choices considered not good (although I have to say that which is defined as good seems to live in a fluid, murky place), if you blame humanity, ultimately, you blame that which created humanity for having produced something at best, imperfect.

Similarly, if you say all is predetermined, that from the moment He conceived of Creation, He knew everything and everyone that would ever be until all that is returns to what it was pre-Creation, then who else can one blame other than the Creator?

The devil, of course.

And so, we have the devil made me do it.

Which, in the end, is all the same really.

As I said, everything in existence has its opposite. We, He and I, are the epitome of that duality. Two sides of the same coin, we are. The yin to his yang. The darkness he fills with light...or which douses it every now and again.

Where He is so too am I, the face he prefers to deny and call other.

It just makes Him and, I dare say, you, feel better to say the devil made me do it.

I don't mind.

You reach that stage in life where you are attending more funerals than weddings. And the former is why we have gathered today. We are here to say “Goodbye” to Dennis.

I don’t remember the actual moment I met Den, even though he had an imposing presence at 6’2”, two hundred plus pounds with a personality to match. It was probably during my freshman year in college at a mixer sponsored by the science department. Whenever it was, an immediate friendship was forged. Without any hesitation or effort, it morphed into a brotherhood lasting over forty years.

He was from New Hampshire; I was an Ohioan, so we had the shared desire of not pursuing a higher education on a campus requiring snow removal four months out of the year. Plus, although we both grew up landlocked, we had a kindred affinity for the ocean. Attending the University of Miami satisfied both these requirements.

After graduation, he got married and remained in South Florida. I was disillusioned and moved back North. But we remained in touch. Upon my return to Miami two years later, he and his wife welcomed me back with open arms like a prodigal son. We picked up where we left off without skipping a beat.

For however long you knew Dennis, whether a portion, a majority, or the entirety of your life, you were fortunate. The duration was irrelevant because his welcoming warmth never waned. Your days were brighter, which made your months fuller which meant your years were richer. Dennis elevated you. His impact was profound because he was genuine. He was a constant in a very inconsistent world. Den could have taught a MasterClass or given a TED speech on the fundamentals of being a great friend.

In Den you had an ally. He shared your triumphs without stealing the spotlight. He was a confidante who pulled you up without being judgmental. He’d give you an honest opinion or a differing viewpoint in a way that didn’t belittle you. And he knew things. He soaked up information on a variety of subjects. He’d have the answers to your questions, no matter how obscure the inquiry seemed. And if he didn’t know the answers, he’d make a point to find them for you. Dennis was Google before Google was Google.

He fully embraced life and sought experiences which he wanted to share with others. He led the way to adventures, whether off the beaten path or right into the thick of things. If anyone was hesitant, he encouraged/dragged them along because he knew good times were to be had. He was usually correct too, because there were enumerable good times. Much to your liver’s detriment, but good times, nonetheless.

I am eternally grateful for sharing so many years with him. Although our journey reached its conclusion, well before I would have liked, his treasured guidance remains. I can take comfort in knowing I’m the person I am today because of meeting Dennis.

On Friday February 31st of 2025 we lost Mrs. Annie B. Long. She was born September 22, 1925.

Mrs. Long would've been a centurion this year. She worked most of her productive years as a teacher with the Hanover Virginia Education System. She gave most of her spare time to volunteering at the after school programs at the YWCA helping students of all ages with their homework.

Mrs Long was a proud mother of two children. She will be an angel for her daughter, Kathy Long and her twins Helen and Holly. Also she will be an angel for her son David Long Jr. and his son Jasper.

She also leaves behind three sisters, Jackie Hall, Joyce Cane, and Kim Bridges. She will be a guiding light for 11 nieces and nephews. She also leaves many friends and distant family as well.

Mrs. Annie Long wanted her family to celebrate her introduction to heaven at her wake which will be held at the Bishop Funeral Home at 3201 Park Ave Henrico, VA. 23228

Remembering Mrs. Long is missing her famous apple pie and her friendly smile whenever she came around. You will never be forgotten, Mrs. Annie B. Long

We are all affected by death. I have lost friends, people I cared for, and my brother–a loss that we both felt deeply. I lost you too, Mom, multiple times. Some mistakes were mine; others, yours. For a while now, I have been terrified that our estrangement was a mistake. That when you died, it would break me.

These things are meant for the living, not the dead, and I suspect that most people will think I am a monster for speaking out here… but I am part of the living.

I won’t go into detail about what she did and didn’t do for us as a parent. I won’t pretend that I am not angry, either. Relationships are complex, and difficult. I want to explain how this estrangement came about.

We rarely spoke unless she needed something, but that wasn’t enough of a reason. I had honestly forgiven her for our childhood. As adults, we all did what we could to care for her, and when she lost her son, I know that it broke her. We all pitched in to care for her. She didn’t reciprocate. It was all one way. It always was.

Still, this didn’t stop us; we kept trying. I have never been good at caring for myself but having a kid has fixed something inside me. When I thought that she didn’t care about my daughter, I left. In some ways, I think I was wrong. In her own way, she cared about her, but I couldn’t risk my child being hurt by her, so I kept my distance.

I realise that what I am doing may be selfish. But I also want people to know that I don’t hate my mother. I want nobody here to assume that just because we didn’t speak, she was a bad person. I do not think she was.

She kept her kids fed and clothed. She gave me her sense of humour, her eclectic taste in music and culture. She thought that everyone should be treated equally, even if she struggled, like we all do, not to put some ahead of others. I forgave my mom for any wrong she ever did me and my siblings, and I understand that her past also made her unable to be the person she might have wanted to be. Even as I kept my distance, I didn’t hate her. Fear gripped me for my daughter’s sake, and my own. In many ways, we both failed each other.

Despite the distance I kept, I bear her no ill will. More than that, I love her. I hope that she is at peace now, and I am glad for anyone who was able to be her friend, past or present. To anyone who loved her and needs support, I offer the support I couldn't give her in life. With the resources available, she did the best she could - that's all anyone can ask.

Your son.

Dear Brother,

You know I was always afraid to answer a call. It's not that you managed to race me to the rotary phone. I let you believe that, slowing down on purpose.

Now that you're gone, I stand here laughing through my tears, remembering the tomfoolery. Growing up with you, my younger brother, was the best childhood anyone could have. Yes, we did fight a lot and snickered when the other got chastised by dad, or mom. But I wouldn't have had it any other way. Ever.

Brother, you always raced ahead, like the Virar fast local, even as I lagged behind like an all-stops train. It was also why I stand here today. The fateful night of 1st Jan.

The world was getting ready to ring in the new year when the other ring startled us-- the phone ring. While rest of the family slept, I awoke and, somehow, answered the phone. That was the last I, or anyone else, heard from you.

When the police called the next morning, I could sense the rising dread on dad's face. The journey to the station where we found your mortal remains was punctuated with sudden gasps of breath, a lot of praying, and forcing ourselves to stay positive.

You had fallen off a train, they said, although that was never confirmed. Far more sinister causes came to mind. None could bring you back. What was confirmed, for sure, was the fact that we had a gaping hole now. In our family and in our hearts.

This morning, mum called, and I dragged my feet to the phone. I knew why she had called, and as always, I was afraid to answer it.

Rest in peace.

My brother's ghost watches over us, aware of the death we all fear. We witnessed towering fires fueled by hate, the broken bodies of men—some dead, others grieving—and faced death with a smile. We fought as brothers, not for glory or anger, but as lost boys seeking meaning in this life. I count on him still, to remind me of the tasks ahead; his ghostly presence grips my grief.

He succumbed to a silent death in his sleep, only hours after we talked about a vacation. He led an adventurous life, surrounded by loved ones and making friends wherever he went. His absence leaves a void, but his legacy of joy, exploration, and connection will always be with us.

Officer Pierce peered through the window. "Kids are on the floor."

"Are they hurt?"

"Can't tell. I'm going in."

Junior was comforting little Jeannie whose arms were bruised, her feet bare, bloody.

"You alright?"

They stared, mute.

"Mama here?"

Jeannie nodded.

"Daddy?"

Jeannie looked at Junior. He nodded.

"Pierce, I've got Lacey here. Looks like Adam went too far this time. Her head..."

"Got it. Any sign of Adam?"

"Kids room, Pierce. Briefs around the ankles, multiple shots to the groin. No pulse. Kid-sized bloody footprints."

"Weapon?"

Junior let go of Jeannie and pushed his daddy's glock across the floor.