she always was an odd child, fascinated
with death and dying despite her sheltered
life early on and into adulthood;
never lost a friend or close family
member to it, not even so much, or
little, as a pet goldfish; she had no
use for dead things, things she said were merely
discarded clothes, the truth of life being
something merely disguised by material
trappings—the body itself being some
sort of iron maiden of manifestation.
It was the dying that fascinated her.
Those closest to their final
departure her chosen companions. To
her, what most of us consider a life-
time was merely an interlude in flesh,
and her time was all about preparing
to make her way home to whatever “true
life” awaits beyond Lethe’s foggy shores.

dmpitchford