The detritus of grief litters a suburban Atlanta home office.
Letters of condolence. File folders stuffed with insurance policies and investment accounts. The contents of a husband’s golf club locker that a 34-year-old widow can’t yet bear to sift through. And resting on a desk, lost in this muddle, a child’s drawing.
The sketch, on white paper, depicts a bright summer sun and blue sky over a golf course. One man, in red pants, stands triumphantly near a flagstick, having felled another man, prone below him. The victor’s fists are accompanied by comic-like interjections: POW! BAM! There’s an overturned white truck in the background, wheels up.
