Collecting bottles, tossing leftovers, taking out the garbage
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Irene Svete lives in Seattle, where she splits her workday between freelance writing and a NASA program at the University of Washington. Her fiction has appeared in Bricolage and Gargoyle.
Before leaving, I had vowed I would not go looking for Jim Morrison’s grave. The idea of making such a pilgrimage at my age struck me as vaguely ridiculous. Yet there I was, on my last morning in Paris, wandering mapless in the sprawling necropolis, looking for the tombstone of a singer I had barely thought of in almost thirty years.