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EulogyThe dream-catchers are handmadebut each bear the same mark of boredom.On the reservation,the dirt is red and separated from the turquoise on sale.The tops of the mountains have been scraped offlike whipped cream from pudding cupsof beautiful alien rock."Plateau," my mother says.I am not sure if it is a nameor a command.The lightning storms are brighter in the desert.I sit perched on the horizon,the edge of one loss to anothergiven up my love, all my bottled water.The mountains carry their own babies in the muddy puddles,against the wind they huddle,but their semi-circle somehow is just one great smile.I let them tell me I walk over dinosaurs,that their bones are beneath my feet.Gray feathers,brown beads,earthy wire and stringthese are the weapons I possessto protect me from their ghosts.The hollows are for imaginationand the web for night-terrors,like a brain fraught with holes from penstrying hard to fill a page,when you've only got a page left.
Buford"They're gone again Mom!" The distraught wail of my son wafted in through the still open door.I pulled my head and a load of flailing clothes out of the dryer. "Oh no, sweetie, you're kidding!" I followed the cold draft to the open door. Buford was standing at the bottom of the steps, tears welling up in his blue, seven-year-old eyes. He pointed to the spot where his Jack-o-Lantern used to sit.My own heart sunk to the spidery frost formations on the steps. He was a timid kid, Buford. He was fiercely intelligent, and he took pride in his work, but he got discouraged easily.His grin had been so unreserved last night when he had shown Bret and I the lop-sided cackle of his Jack-o-Lantern, his bright little face smudged with the orange-yellow juice and webs of pumpkin guts still trailing from his elbows and fingers. It had been a project of many hours of scooping and carving and even more drawing and redrawing the perfect face. It was his second one this year."You said it wo