Thursday, November 3, 2016


Candles float on the glassy surface lighting the faces gathered to remember. Words bring the circle together. Young people are the most honest, most concise. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Rain falls, first lightly, then in waves that drum on the roof. Creosote-laced air rustles the curtains. The candles drift in the disturbance. Water ripples. The faces stay focused on the light, still lost in reverie. On this, the Day of the Dead, we celebrate love and loss. My heart is cold, asleep, when I place my candle onto the dream we call living. A stranger knocks on the door, alert with news. Outside, next to the path where children walk, a rattlesnake rests in a coil. She wants me to move it. It is torpid enough to pick up with my hand. I move it to the wash so the revelers won't get too close on their way to cars in the parking lot. I set it there on the sand, and it opens up, almost yawning, before it serpents its way to higher ground. A flood is coming.

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