Colt’s grave is on the other side of the tall oak tree, behind St. Lucy’s, the old Negro church. Red’s grave is right beside it. Mine will lie beside his. Not much sunlight reaches this part of the cemetery, but I can just make out my brothers’ names on their gravestones with my only good eye wide open. It doesn't matter that their full names are a blur to me, I know their true names will always be Red and Colt. The cold wind coming in from behind chills my old bones, and more and more now, the joints ache for days, and my bones rub together. My only daughter Rose, used to beg me to use a cane, but we don’t speak much anymore. It’s not her business why I haven’t crossed 21st Street into the Italian part of Chicago since 1941. It's not her business why I go to confession more than a
[This message has been edited by Kathleen Dalton Woodbury (edited October 14, 2009).]
"my only good eye" is a tautology for a human - you only need to say "my good eye" because it is instantly implicit that the other is not good. Someone with more than two eyes might need to indicate they only have one left that's functional, but I don't think that's the case here.
"My only daughter Rose, used to beg me" - that comma is invalid. You could say either "My only daughter, Rose, used to beg me" or "My only daughter Rose used to beg me".
Colt x 3, St.Lucy's, Red x 3, Rose, Donny = 9 names in thirteen lines.
I don't mind stories with a lot of characters but I'd like to be introduced to them at a more reasonable pace.
I think the most interesting line and the best hook for me is, "It's not her business why I go to confession more than a father should". This had me asking questions about just what he was into. The promise to answer this is what would get me to read further.
Colt’s grave is on the other side of the tall oak tree, behind the old Negro church. Red’s grave is right beside it. Mine will lie beside his. Not much sunlight reaches this part of the cemetery, but I can just make out my brothers’ names on their gravestones with my good eye wide open. It doesn't matter that their full names are a blur to me. I know their true names will always be Red and Colt.
The cold wind coming in from behind chills my old bones, and more and more now, the joints ache for days, and my bones rub together. My only daughter Rose used to beg me to use a cane, but we don’t speak much anymore. It’s not her business why I haven’t crossed 21st Street into the Italian part of Chicago since 1941. It's not her business why I go to confession more than a father should. She should be asking her husband Donny why he’s stopped looking me dead in the eye when he says my brothers’ names. She should ask her father’s right hand man why he stopped calling me “boss” all of a sudden.