November 25, 2020:

A Funeral in Tecolote

Well, she went and fucking died. Motherfucking stupid, if you ask me. I'll note she didn't.

I burned her up. Crackle crackle crackle. Now what?

I thought of taking her to her father. But that's a cold place, and I hate to be cold. Granted she fucking died that makes it all about me.

She'd said she'd prolly go home. Sure, but whose home is home? Mine, then. The place I think of as home.

Changed, now. Not as it was. The green is now yellow, the oleanders gone, no longer there to murder infants.

She's dead, my friends are dead. I sometimes feel I'm dead, or perhaps that's just wishing.

So I took her there, with her last kitty, the one who outlived the rest, now just as dead, now just as burnt to ashes. I sprinkled them together in the canyon, the dirt and scrub, just steps from what was our front door over twenty years.

My dirt and scrub — she never went there. A boy's adventureland: lizards, tadpoles, BB guns. Why not? I couldn't very well sprinkle their ashes inside what's now someone else's apartment.

They're home. I'm not. I will be one day.

Thank you in advance for sprinkling me there, too.