“In a windowless nook of a downtown Roanoke funeral parlor, not far from where Tess once roamed the streets, Patricia caressed the back of the scar, as if cupping a baby’s head, and told her poet goodbye. It was January 2, Tess’s birthday. She would have been twenty-nine. Patricia tucked the treasures of her daughter’s life inside the vest – a picture of her boy and one of his cotton onesies that was Tess’s favorite, some strands of Koda’s hair, and a sand dollar.”
