Mary Travers died. She had blood cancer-a tiresome disease-and on as good a day for living as there is, she died anyway. I can't blame her, but I fault the unstoppable grim tide. Summer's end is a showcase of life and to leave like the smell of last mowing of the hay is to miss the harvest. A time for collecting life and giving prizes for food stuffed in jars and warmth stitched into quilts; a time for death to take a break with his scythe and wait for a day when the streams are choked with ice, the hollows filled with wood smoke and the ground crackles like the distant rattle of bones as the departed is trundled to the perfect cold of the grave. But will he wait up? No. I sit here and write perfect purple vignettes for death to follow and though he will use them all, he never takes a break and seems to delight in cutting the ones I love down like summer grasses, on the most perfect days to live. I'm not trying to stop death, but I would certainly appreciate it if he were to follow the plots I lay down in my dark hours and just stop killing like there was no tomorrow.
You'd think the shade would give a root boy a break. But he don't stop for horses or high waters, so people pack up your good deeds and your sorrows too and keep them close to hand cause you just don't know when that man be stepping around your corner and catching your eye. For truth.