Aunt Mila was the one collecting the eggs every morning but the chore is now mine. We have an extra daily egg since she has flown off and Grandma uses them to bake a cake every other day. Grandpa and ... [+]
I tucked my hair, long and blond like Kurt's, behind my ears. Red flannel hung low, loose and sloppy, like my guitar. My jeans, all beat to shit, inked with black Sharpie "fuck you's," frayed and stomped by Chuck Taylor. I'd pluck my novice power chords and scream pretty, toneless songs of teenage angst into microphones inside grange halls.And then Kurt died.Alone and prone, below a shot gun, defiant fist clenched next to jeans, all beat to shit, all frayed and stomped. I saw him: a martyr, a hero, a role model pathetic god. But really, he was a scared little boy cowering behind long blond ha