I’ve finally read Damien Echols’ Life After Death. I’ve seen exactly none of the documentaries about the West Memphis Three (yet), though I’ve poured over wm3.org and followed the case in the later years of Echols’ (and Baldwin’s, and Misskelley’s) incarceration with interest and empathy.
I’ve considered what it must be like to suffer though you’ve done nothing wrong, and to have few people believe you.
So I read the 400-page memoir over two days last week and then, with no time to sit and reflect, closed the book and jumped up to make the farmer’s market before it closed.
I did not expect to find chanterelle mushrooms. I bought them.
This past weekend, I fried them up and ate them and Echols’ words flashed back into my brain as I chewed. Continue reading