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Saturday, May 15, 2010

Death in May











Death surrounds me.

It always has.

I grew up as a pathologist... like my dad.

My earliest memory of Dad was when he came home late one night.

He tucked me into bed with the story of his latest autopsy.

That was my bedtime story.





And I, too,  grew up to tell my kids autopsy stories - usually during driver's ed.


But death has never been so personal to me.

In the 10 days since my Dad's death, it feels more personal when I'm called to investigate a death.

I can feel the family's pain - the loss - the sorrow.


To clear my head, I visit The Land.

The Land always brings me peace and joy.

Eagerly I take the camera to capture the growth of my two baby bluebirds.

Last week they were begging for food.

I open the bird box.


Only one baby bird is left.

I take several pictures before I realize - he is not moving.




My baby bluebird is dead.

Mama bluebird still squawks at me as I sadly close the box lid.

I walk The Land.

There is no joy - the flowers of spring have passed.

The sky is a dull flat blue - no puffy clouds, no play of light on blossoms.

Head down, I drive back to see my family in Fishers.





I'm sure they didn't mean to let my flowers die.

But there in the center of our table stand dead tulips - sent in memory of my dear father.





How can I shake this off - this feeling that death is all around me?

Friday I bike.

I visit Frank.
I come home.













KC is waiting for me with pictures of the latest event at Brixton.

The visit of vultures.






What can I do?
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