I met Jenny when I was working in the long-term psych ward, one of the many jobs I tried and then left. She was a small woman, 30 years old, with matted hair and a vacant expression. Of course, this was made even more vacant by her lack of eyes, and the puckered holes where they used to reside. Even without eyes she seemed to constantly be searching for something.
Another year gone, another bouquet of flowers, another vigil, more remembering. Every year I do the same thing. Maybe I’m punishing myself for not being there, or maybe I’m apologizing for being alive when she’s not. I go to the big stone in the park every year on July 17, the place where they found my best friend’s body.
Living in a small town, you get used to having a garbage day, and to putting your stuff out on the curb damn early. I paid for a refuse company to get my garbage and recyclables, so you can imagine that I was not happy when my neighbor started to sneak a bag or two into my pile every week, for me to pay for.
