The graves of Mollie and her murdered family members Credit
68As Margie and her husband and I continued across the prairie,
the sun floated above the rim of the earth—a perfect orange sphere
that soon became half a sun, then a quarter, before dying off with
a burst of dazzling light. Margie said, “I like it when the sky gets
pink like this.”
We seemed to be driving aimlessly, riding up and down over the
undulating land, like a ship adrift in the waves. Suddenly, at a
peak, Margie jolted the car to a stop. In the distance was a ravine
and, at the bottom, a meandering creek. “Over there, that’s where
they shot Anna,” Margie said. “My dad took me horseback riding
and showed me the spot. I was young and we only had our horses.
It was kind of scary.”
In 2009, an Osage named Elise Paschen published a poem called