The procession turns right onto Cimarron Avenue. Past Mrs. Ginger’s house, past the barbershop, the grocery store, Starbucks and the elementary school. The cemetery is tucked away, behind a grove of trees, in a peaceful pocket.
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That was the last walk Kori took with her daughter down Cimarron Avenue. Now, Mrs. Ginger brings the snicker doodles to their house. Other friends knock on the door, twist the red doorknob and bring in DVDs, flowers and puzzles for Kori’s daughter to arrange while the adults speak in hushed voices.
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When Kori’s daughter was born, her head sprouted wisps of soft gold that didn’t become hair until she was three years old. Now, two years later, her hair hangs below her elbows.
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