Heartbeats Lynda Black “This is the spot.” Pine trees and scrub oaks sway in the breeze and pine needles carpet the ground. I had asked to see this place. Jon and Kim, my brother and sister, wanted to go, too. Roy Fowler, our father’s friend, drove us into the forest to show us where our father died. I press my palm against the pine tree. I scrape two fingers over the bark, peeling flakes as if scabs from a wound. I glance at Jon and Kim, both battling grief too big to swallo