Monday, October 17, 2016


In the White Mountains not
all houses have curtains. Things
can be seen inside. From afar, not
much happens, but up close, oh 
the things you see. Down South,
by contrast, things are different
again. They have Lane Cakes :
a particular cake of a shiny white,
with boiled icing. It signifies that
someone has died in the night.
The woman carrying it down 
the street, with its frosting slightly
sweating in the heat, was headed 
for the church, or the house of the
survivors, or the union hall that
might now bear the bunting for
the dead. The other ladies from the 
church would come by, as mourners,
 and to sit with the family members. 
They'd talk, only good things, about 
the deceased. Sometimes it was
amazing how biographies changed.
My friend's Grandpa used to say : 'If 
you want to be truly reformed; 
it's best to die.'

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