It wasn’t just the murder which brought her here to the place her parents could never stop talking about, the place they had left, their hearts almost irretrievably broken when they were forced to leave their family and homeland.
I’ve eaten many pecan waffles or scrambled eggs with crisp, brown shredded hash browns at Waffle Houses during the 17 years I lived in Nashville. Never once did I think I had to look up from the Formica table in the booth of the red Naugahyde cushions to glance around for an automatic weapon.
It was 5:20 AM Sunday and someone was banging on the door at my grandmother’s house in Beloit, Wisconsin, where I had come for a weekend respite from college. I stumbled out of bed with my slit eyes, grumbling to myself about inconsiderate people who don’t have the sense to let others get some much-needed sleep.
