ANNE BRANNEN, a former professor of medieval literature, now teaches privately online. Her poetry has appeared in such venues as Cabinet des Fées, Literary Mama, and Kestrel.
I NEVER MET MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER, Robert Greene Elliott, who died long before I was born, but I know exactly where he was at 12:05 am on January 6, 1927. He was in the death chamber of the penitentiary at Charlestown, Massachusetts. He wasn’t sitting in the electric chair—that was Edward Heinlein, part of a trio of young men who had killed James Ferneau, a watchman, during a robbery fifteen months earlier. My great-grandfather was standing behind Heinlein, controlling the switch. But he could see the condemned man; Elliott—who was already, just a year after he began the work, a seasoned executioner—refused to pull…
