Bones

"No, no, I've got it!" Shaya said, grabbing the empty bucket of chicken from off of the table and bringing it into the kitchen. She quickly scrubbed the bones with moon water, salt, and rosemary, then cast them on a clean dish towel with the rinds from the lemons in their drinks and a yew sprig she'd carefully picked from the garden. One small inheritance was coming; a car would fail to start; a bit of plagiarism at work would result in dismissal; two would fall ill (one seriously). Shaya took a pinch of soil from a nearby potted plant, thanked it, and buried the whole mess with a sprinkle. "Why do you do that?" her cousin had asked (way back in the day). "It's creepy." She had shrugged, not really having a good answer. In replaying the scene in her mind, Shaya gave her cousin a hug and whispered, "The dead don't have to pretend to be fine; the dead don't lie like the living do."