an Art of Dying fragment

Lili-Ann, the older of my two younger sisters had a bit of a temper as a child and it wasn’t always benign. Grouchy, often. Angry, on occasion. Strong-willed contrariness, refusal-to-budge-ness. Not so these days, mother of two grown sons, she’s the kindest. But then.

As of the summer of 1961 (I think it was — so I’m twelve and Lili-Ann is seven), the tallest and longest bridge in all of…