Flecked with indifference and, otherwise, a pain that can’t be covered by insurance, I gaped at my ancestors for a solid seven minutes without realizing that my vigil would be viewed by the world at large as a strange session of staring at nothing in particular. It wasn’t until I made it back home for the evening that I took all those vacant glares into account, and by that time I’d already forgotten why I reached out to my ancestors in the first place. Something to do with losing the family farm, I think.
WHARVED 