The Young Peace Officers Who Found Her (Tables Without Joins)

She is comfortable and at peace. Unlike the two peace officers who found her.  This-here-situation... it's freakin' wierd.    

The objects around where her body was don't fit any scene they know.  What could that have been for?  And these?

They want to know if we know. We do not yet know.

The Investigating Lieutenant
When I visit a year later, the Sheriff's Office Lieutenant reveals that investigating her death dug in to his personal life for months.
Tells me about his needing to understand why.
About how he's come to believe that suicide is not a sin.
To believe that God would feel about your suicide the same way your best friend would:
So sad not to have been able to do more.

I Know Who You Are (Tables Without Joins)

She has passed away, over, through, and on.  She floats to the arms of the all-loving God, who seems to have reciprocated by placing a collarless and unyeildingly tolerant terrier in mom's back yard.

She died, and lived for three years, in a West Texas town with 25 percent fewer residents than five years before. The time of mom's Celebration-of-Life service makes the radio station news.

Celebration of Life
We put out happy photos like these. Here Mom's about 30, setting up to fly a race.
At the service, women bring casseroles and cinnamon rolls.
"She was smart, she had ideas, she wanted what she wanted...we had no idea it was this bad for her.
"Did you know?" they ask.
I close and then open my eyes in a small nod.
A man with military upright shoulders meets the offering of my name cold.
"I know who you are." he says, with a glare so transitive I step out of its way.
Taking turns using thin arms to pin the dog to dangle from their bellies, the children lean and crouch to the grass, filling their pockets with pecans.
Where did this dog come from? This has to be someone's dog.

Winter Bit My Neck

Winter bit my neck. The mark looks like a hicky, but it's dry skin + scarves + coats + cedar allergies. Still. It looks like I spent all night, roughly two nights ago, being wounded in passion.  Notsomuch.  Makeup irritates it. A scarf is out of the question. I do believe the balm exaggerates the hue.

I considered marking it lightly with a note - Not A Hicky.  But delaying the explanation of "hicky" to my children is something I'm invested in trying for.

After self-consciousness there is mystery and soul.  Maybe it is a sign of some sort.

For instance, a sign I need detergent without additives.