The beheaded corpse of the shepherdess lies on the mantelpiece. Her painted eyes glare reproachfully at my brother from the rug. Grandma looks at me and my face grows hot.
"Tell the truth and shame the devil," she demands'
"It was me," I sob penitently. Grandma pulls me to her, says I'm a good, honest girl.
Years later my brother shapes this into an anecdote.
"Who confesses to a crime they didn't commit?" he asks. I remember the seldom heard praise, the smell of Yardley's Lavender and the unfamiliar softness of Grandma's twinset against my cheek, and I only smile.
"Tell the truth and shame the devil," she demands'
"It was me," I sob penitently. Grandma pulls me to her, says I'm a good, honest girl.
Years later my brother shapes this into an anecdote.
"Who confesses to a crime they didn't commit?" he asks. I remember the seldom heard praise, the smell of Yardley's Lavender and the unfamiliar softness of Grandma's twinset against my cheek, and I only smile.
