Wonderful. Made me think of both Poe and Hieronymus Bosch.

Was recently talking with friends about the first wave of existentialist angst, which usually happens to all children between the ages of 7 and 9.

Tammy the goldfish flushed down the toilet to happily swim in some other realm, the burial of Suzie the turtle to help her get to the ‘pond-in-the sky’ or the funeral for Champ the Collie, who gets to chase rabbits forever, all become fairy tales.

They don’t work anymore and death is something permanent, something that can gobble up all, grandma and grandpa, mom and dad and…even me.

We all shared our childhood shock: what’s left after there’s no more me?

Your writing is so evocative.

As more and more of my demographic slip away, I have come to see myself as in need of a cane, and mittens, in order to better approach and then grasp the cold reality of the cemetery’s all devouring bird and his cage.

Thank you.