The death certificates arrived so I can meet with the lawyer and paper over her life. They look just like birth certificates, only a different color.
I wonder if all copies of vital records use the same paper.
I suppose it would be efficient.
It seems stupid to me after sitting and watching her go in time lapse, needing a document to prove she's gone. But nobody will talk to me without it, the hole in the living room doesn't mean anything to them.
They're the kind of memorial the bureaucracy can understand, solid like the brass handles of a coffin.
And it doesn't have to mean anything to me, it just has to work.
A couple of months back we were getting in the car when a young urban nomad riding his cruiser up the street the wrong way called out
You can't escape karma!
Apparently karma didn't know quite what to do with me.
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