Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the school bus took me around for years. I can see in the headlights the wildflowers ringing the curve like a necklace--goldenrod, cornflower, Queen Anne's Lace, God's gift to country roads in the fall. You don't see anything like that in the city but I'm getting used to living there. I see the house ahead, one light on, upstairs. It's midnight and my father's dead and my mother's in that room praying and maybe crying, waiting for me to pull in. She knows it's a six-hour drive from the city. The wake will be tomorrow night at Egan's mortuary. There will be 15 decades of the rosary to say and I still have trouble getting through five. Then there will be three hours of listening to my mother's friends console her, ancient ladies all, many of them widowed...

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Author: Donal Mahoney