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The three of us — mother, daughter, and son — visit Dad’s niche down a fetid hall of Sunland Columbarium No. 1. Bouquets in sconces droop on the marbled wall
beneath Dad’s urn, mass-made with polished metals, near a stained ceiling panel, sitting high above the many spotty, browning petals of roses below. To my unpracticed eye,
About the Author
Brian J. Buchanan is a writer in Nashville, Tenn. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Crannóg, Chronicles, the Westchester Review, Literary Matters, Modern Age, the Cumberland River Review, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.
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The three of us — mother, daughter, and son — visit Dad’s niche down a fetid hall of Sunland Columbarium No. 1. Bouquets in sconces droop on the marbled wall
beneath Dad’s urn, mass-made with polished metals, near a stained ceiling panel, sitting high above the many spotty, browning petals of roses below. To my unpracticed eye,
About the Author
Brian J. Buchanan is a writer in Nashville, Tenn. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Crannóg, Chronicles, the Westchester Review, Literary Matters, Modern Age, the Cumberland River Review, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.
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