t turned out my shovel was the one that would unearth an old leg bone. I was just as shocked as the detective! I gasped and nearly fainted at the sight, but I managed to hold it together, as one does in the company of guests. I told him “I don’t know what to tell you.” I truly didn’t. As it turns out however, old bones aren’t all that uncommon to find in midtown and downtown backyards. These vestiges of the Great Depression serve to remind us of a time when families were forced to bury loved ones on their own property, not being able to pay funeral or burial costs. It’s such a gruesome thing to discover, and yet, it makes one both appreciate what they have and feel such empathy for these poor souls who had to bury a loved one in the backyard. It’s very tragic. Still, the detectives brought me in for questioning, which lasted about two hours, but unfortunately there was scarcely any information I could provide — I’d already told them everything I knew.
They said they’d return in the morning. I was dreading their return. Onlookers would surely gather around the place, and I just couldn’t bear to see the other remains that surely must have been close to the leg bone. It was just too gruesome, to tragic.
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