"To me, death is not a fearful thing. It’s living that is cursed." - Rev. Jim Jones
I’m currently working on a lesson plan for a novel inspired by the Jonestown tragedy. So many thoughts. So little time to prepare.
We were made in the image of our mothers: our mouths, our eyes, our hands. As little girls we played in the mirror, mimicking the way we saw her rouge her cheeks. In sweeping strokes, she rendered them a pink reminiscent of the way our palms blushed when beaten by a ruler or branch. As if warmed by a fever, her cheeks announced themselves like her mother’s had before growing cold and stiff with rot. Each night, with a silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she sat at her vanity. Gripping the frame of her door, we counted the strokes of her silver brush as it parted the heavy curtain of her hair.