I kissed the warm wood of her casket just before she was lowered into the shadows of her grave. My heart, my friend, and my little girl since our mama died in a blizzard so many years ago. I returned to work a week later, still struggling to function and put on a normal facade. I had asked that my coworkers not mention her death; I knew I could not attempt to comment without breaking down. I heard that one coworker had commented, "What's her problem; it's only her sister." A week later she got the news that her sister was dead. She died as my sister had, from a car accident. Karma

Sarah stood at the kitchen window with a bowl in her hand stirring up batter for biscuits. She added a ball of lard to the mound of flour in her bowl, a cup of milk, stirred the mixture until it formed a ball, pinched off little balls of the dough, rolled them in her palm, patted them into a pan, made a score along the top of each one to spread butter in and placed them in the oven. Henry her husband of forty years was standing on the front porch in his overalls eyeing a large, diamond back rattler curled on the top step. He was trying to lineup the slanted eyes in his sights, and he knew if he made an error in judgement, the rattler would strike. He was large, deadly, and already starting to windup into a defensive coil. Henry aimed at the raised head, squeezed the trigger and saw him slump onto the step. He picked the dead snake up with a stick, started to pitch him off the side of the porch, but knew he would catch hell from Sarah, so he carried him to the door of the dugout behind the house where Sarah kept her canned food and winter apples. She wouldn't balk at him leaving the snake there until he could skin him to make a head band for his hat. He washed his hands at the outside spicket, picked up his gun, opened the door to the kitchen where a plate of warm biscuits, a pan of bacon and eggs, and Sarah, waited for him. Life was good.