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EXCERPT 
At the end, there was so much blame to spread around that we could all have taken a few shovelfuls home and rolled around in it like pigs in stink. But that’s not the way it goes with most of us. Most of us like to think that blame belongs on somebody else’s doorstep. And I’m no different.
I can picture the way it was on the day everything went bad, just as clearly as if I still had my sight. Of course, I probably made up most of it. You know how it goes: your mouth fills in the details your mind doesn’t catch. And then later, when you’re looking back over everything that happened, your memory just smoothes out some of the corners, takes away that metal taste of fear, makes you seem a little braver than you really were, and then paints in a rosy-toned sunset. You’re always the hero of your own story. Even if that’s not the way it happened at all. © Louise Ure, 2008 
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