A short story by Mary-Kate Burns about coming of age in a small and storied lake town.
But the thing that has stayed imprinted in everyone’s memory — long after Mr. Davey’s parents have passed away, and the children and grandchildren have dispersed across the country, and the size of pilgrimage has grown smaller and smaller until one year, the last hangers-on will quit making the trip, altogether — is the high dive. The high dive is, in actuality, quite modest in size. But in memory, it soars. It rises, sentinel-like, off to the side of the lake: a monument to courage on an otherwise subdued horizon. Kid after kid has passed into pseudo-adulthood in the twelve-foot descent between the springboard and the murky depths of Rockhill Lake.
Dead dead dead or alive alive? Read this short story by Mary-Kate Burns here.
You really do die as you’ve lived, is what I’ve realized. If you lived as a stranger to everyone, you’ll die as a stranger to everyone. You’ll be buried in a stranger’s suit, made up with a stranger’s face, and arrive before the Lord with a heart as locked up and closed off as it was your whole life. And He’ll give you one look over and say, “I do not know you,” and close the Gates.