We stood on a green hill on a brisk day, two small sisters in coats, singing two-part harmony into a tiny grave. Our preacher dad had asked us to sing the one about children and their heavenly father at the burial of a baby, stillborn to a couple named Story.
But this was a story I couldn’t crack. How could a baby be born with no breath or life, how could a baby be dead, but still, born?
I looked at the mother’s eyes as the two of us sparrowed on about how life and death would never sever—I knew it meant separate—children from God’s strong arms.
It was nice to get paid for singing, but I didn’t want to ever be dead and flourishin