The last two years of her life she spent with us, my father's old aunt who didn't get along with anyone -- her whole life Gaunt, white-haired and embittered by life she was ungrateful for our food and shelter a quiet recluse, whose austere character refused the advances of my good will I was only a tyke then, and taken by the songs and general racket of Edith Piaf (and Sarapo); My poor aunt (la Tia) detested her -- "a screaming goat" she would yell in her annoyance slamming the door of her room whenever I played the old records It was schadenfreude (I think now) that I played them so often She died in her sleep, and in the early morning we drove to God's acres - where weary souls may rest in the moist coolness of such heavy mists as clothe our lands -- to deposit her old bones, whose story I shall never know The gates closed, a lineup of cars awaited engines turned off whilst the kin of those delivered scurried about garbed in the traditional colours of the crow whispering in hushed tones with a sense of agitation I loosed myself from mother's grip and ran to the gates to spectate what would take many years to comprehend - the fabric for my transformation, perchance deliverance a thing no member of the human race should ever see The men in uniform hurried. a commanding officer barking orders they pushed onto the ground the remains of those in their custody [3-X-2016]