Pack up your Sorrows

           Miles harrumphed, which sounded like the sound a donkey makes when they want their morning hay, and said, “Quite right, and no surprise. I always told Harold you were exceptional.”

            Miss Kitty smiled, a wide and glorious smile that exposed her beautiful teeth.

            “Besides which,” Miles said, “we have important matters to discuss, and face-to-face communication is always more reliable, more efficient, and more proper for such interactions.”

            “Quite right,” Miss Kitty echoed.

            “I have to pack up my sorrows and begin a new adventure,” Miles said.

            Miss Kitty’s smile evaporated; her lips became drawn, like the line on a dry-erase board.

            “I need to go home,” Miles said. “To Yorkshire.”

            Miss Kitty sat down on the steps leading to Harold’s room in the attic. Tears appeared on her cheeks like freckles, and her sobs soon turned into hiccups.

            Miles climbed down the table and limped over to Miss Kitty.

            “Harold taught me about forgiveness,” Miles said, looking up into Miss Kitty’s eyes. “I have a brother I need to make amends to, and me mum, well, I’m feeling mighty old, and she’s probably feeling even older. It’s time for me to stop running. You do understand, don’t you, Miss Kitty?”

            Miss Kitty scooped Miles up and placed him on her lap. “Of course, Miles. I do understand. But I will miss you, and I haven’t come to terms with missing Harold, and I expected bright lights or angels or something. You know?”

            “Miss Kitty, I can assure you that Harold has found peace, and I like to believe that he is with his lovely Lilith. You will always carry a piece of Harold in your heart, and so, he will always be with you, hmm.”
            Miss Kitty had been forced to confront Harold's death, and at least had some time to prepare for his departure. And she had secretly counted on having Miles around to help her trudge through the grieving process.

            “But I miss him. And now, I'll miss you. What am I going to do without my musical boys?"
             Miles scratched his ear. His tail twitched and acted like a snake in heat, so Miles grabbed the tip. "I'll text you every day, Miss Kitty."
            "But what about you, Miles?" Miss Kitty said, stifling a scream that perched in the back of her throat like a rock.  "Will you come back?”

            Miles smiled. “Oh yes, I plan on returning, Miss Kitty. Harold and I have set it up so that when I return, I’ll be able to run in this field with Miss Patches. The cabin is yours, Miss Kitty. And you need to take good care of it, because in my next life, I’m going to come to you as a horse.”
           Miss Kitty's brow wrinkled, and her nose twitched. She did not expect to receive the gift of a house. Fiercely independent, and a little overwhelmed, she wanted to run home and hide in her teeny-tiny bedroom with the leaky roof, the generator that often refused to start, and the long-list of chores that seemed to have a life of its own, always growing taller and fatter. She loved Harold's cabin, and Miss Patches could spend her leisure time in the meadow, frolicking in the grass, rather than standing in the coral lined with dirt and weeds. The committee that lived rent free in Miss Kitty's head pounded the mahagony meeting table, and for once, they all agreed that Miss Kitty should take advantage of this change in venue, and move to Harold's cabin.

            Miss Kitty nodded her head. “Patches would like that; she gets lonely. We’ll take care of the house, Miles, don’t worry. And I’ll be waiting for you to appear; a beautiful painted gelding, or perhaps, as Miles the mule."

Cool Breeze

          Miss Kitty had hoped for a flash of light, angels floating above the white pine, fiddles and harps, or a visual of Harold and Lilith walking up a golden stairway to heaven, arms entwined. But after Miss Kitty and Miles finished reading “Luke Havergal” for Harold the ghost, the red winged blackbird cawed three times and then, flew away. There was no flash of light, no hallelujahs from an angel choir, no music, and no golden stairway to heaven.

            Miles, perched on Miss Kitty’s shoulder, stifled the tears that longed to flow down his handsome snout and flood the meadow. A cool breeze cleared the clouds from the sky, painting the horizon in an assortment of blues, and the grass, dry and yellow, looked like it had been brushed by God. Together, the two friends trudged back to the silent cabin. The flowers on the deck had withered and died, and Miss Kitty had already harvested and dried the herbs in the front yard garden.

            Miss Kitty walked up the sturdy steps and into the clean and refurbished house. Miles scampered down from her shoulders, and jumped on to the oak table, sitting on top of the deed to the house. “Miss Kitty,” he said, standing tall in his red jacket and looking important, “You need to see this document.”

            Miss Kitty’s eyes grew big, because suddenly, I know I’m not supposed to say that, but really, it’s quite late in the evening and I have tears in my eyes and just can’t focus long enough to come up with a descriptive text describing how wide Miss Kitty’s eyes grew, it was as if they had turned from dimes into half dollars in the wink of an eye, and Miss Kitty exclaimed, “Miles, I understood what you said.”

Go to the Western Gate

        

         Miles pulled out the remnants of a pink handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. He cleared his throat, looking up into Miss Kitty’s eyes. She nodded her head, and withdrew a sheet of paper from her pocket.

            The sun, drooping below the tree line like a melting ice cream cone, painted the sky in the shades of fall—orange, crimson, yellow, and sienna. A red winged blackbird, his shoulders gleaming like the lapels on the jacket of a general, sat on the tip-top of the white pine, a silent observer.

            Together, Miles and Miss Kitty read “Luke Havergal” by Edwin Arlington Robinson out loud to honor the bridging of Harold the Ghost’s passing from one dimension into the next.

Luke Havergal, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

And in the twilight wait for what will come.

The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,

Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;

But go, and if you listen she will call.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies

To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;

But there, where western glooms are gathering,

The dark will end the dark, if anything:

God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,

And hell is more than half of paradise.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—

In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,

Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss

That flames upon your forehead with a glow

That blinds you to the way that you must go.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,

Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this—

To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.

Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—

Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,

Nor any more to feel them as they fall;

But go, and if you trust her she will call.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal.

The Feel of Fall

          Miss Kitty rode Miss Patches to the cabin, relishing the feel of fall on her skin. The air, bordering between the seasons, tasted like raspberries, and the leaves on the trees pretended to be birds, spinning and twirling to the ground. The ground, a kaleidoscope of color, reminded her of the quilt her grandmother had made just for her when she was a child.

            Miss Patches, eager to reach the meadow, where she knew she could still find tasty tidbits of sweet grass, tried to break into a trot, but Miss Kitty held her back, patting her on the neck and telling her to walk. Miss Kitty was in no hurry this early evening. She knew that when they arrived at the cabin, she would have to bundle up Harold’s bones and bury them beneath the white pine tree.

            Harold, sitting on the deck, waved when they arrived. He had on his wedding outfit, complete with a daisy pinned to his lapel. Miles, he looked proud in his red jacket, perched on Harold’s shoulder.

            Miss Kitty dismounted, took off Patches saddle and bridle, and led her into the meadow, where Miss Patches immediately rolled in the dry grass. Miles scurried off Harold’s shoulder and followed Miss Kitty and Patches. Miles, amazed at the horse’s actions, admired the horse’s grace and athleticism. When Patches completed her third roll, Miles clapped his hands.

            Miss Kitty leaned down and picked Miles up. Together, they walked back to the cabin, and trudged up the stairs to the attic. Harold, positively aglow, gave his friends a hug, and then, without a word, sunk into the bones lying on the bed.

Miss Kitty wrapped the skeleton in a clean sheet, and carried it down the stairs, out the door, into the field, and to the grave where Lilith waited for him. When she placed Harold’s skeleton into the grave, his bones wrapped themselves around the bones of his wife, and then, all was silent.

Trudging

          

  
           Miles, a master at untangling computer messes and dealing with unsatisfying and frustrating paperwork, finished typing the documents that would make Miss Kitty the sole owner of the cabin at the top of Marijuana Knob. Harold and Miles had agreed that a quick deed was the best way to handle the arrangements, and a lawyer had already come by the cabin and notarized the deed to the house.

            Harold, exhausted from materializing a full hour in the presence of a lawyer, faded slowly. Soon, the only sign that he was still present was the rocking of his favorite chair.

            “Can you call Rex Mayo and ask him if he can repair the fencing around the pasture,” Harold said.

            “Absolutely,” Miles said, moving to his iPhone and sending Rex a text message.

            “And perhaps hire him as a property manager, so he’ll be on call for Miss Kitty after we’re gone.”

            Miles looked at the invisible chair, which creaked just like Harold’s bony knees. Miles could feel Harold’s presence fading. The air tasted like acorns, and the air seemed to glisten like the frost on a fall morning.
           "And tell him we need a work truck with a plow."
           Miles, surprised that at the clarity of Harold's thoughts and his generousity in making sure that the cabin was set up for Miss Kitty, Miss Patches, and eventually, for Miles in his next life, rubbed his nose, pretending to sneeze in order to swipe the tears out of his beady black eyes.

            “I’ve begun transferring the money to your favorite organizations and nonprofits,” Miles said, “Angelsover Sandpoint, Kinderhaven, Festival at Sandpoint, NAMI, Bonner Partners inCare Clinic Inc, Pend Oreille Arts Council, and the Panhandle Animal Shelter.”

            “Thank-you, Miles,” Harold said. “And you’ve transferred some money to your account, and to Miss Kitty?”

            “Yes, of course,” Miles replied.

            “I’m so tired,” Harold said. “I think I’ll trudge upstairs and take a nap. Miles, I have one more request. Could you read ‘Luke Havergal’ when you bury me next to Lilith?”

            Miles, surprised that Harold remembered the poem, was speechless. He nodded his head yes, his eyes blurring with more wretched tears.

            “Oh Miles,” Harold said. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. You have been an amazing friend.”

            The chair stopped creaking, the smell of acorns disappeared, and the air felt dry.

Morning

          Harold sat down on the creaking pine chair that some idiot had painted black. The chair wouldn’t have held a normal man of Harold’s stature, but Harold was a ghost, and even though he was fully materialized and dressed in a fine suit, he didn’t weigh anything.

            Miles climbed up his makeshift ladder of books, scurried on to the top of the kitchen table, and opened his iPad. “Your finances are all in order,” Miles said, “and you are very much in the green.”

            Harold tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “We can transfer the money easily enough, right?”

            “The money can be transferred with a swipe of my tail,” Miles said. “But the house will take some major shenanigans.”

            “Yes, the lawyers and paper pushers won’t understand when I leave the house to a pack rat.”

            Miles rubbed his hands together. He thought that Harold would leave the house to Miss Kitty and her lovely horse.

            “That’s very gracious of you, Harold. But I plan on going back to England. It’s time for me to face my past. I think you should leave the house to Miss Kitty.”

            “Oh,” Harold said. “But who will take care of Miss Kitty?”

            Miles laughed, which sounded like a cat sneezing.

            “I think Miss Kitty can take care of herself, Harold. And someday, I plan on returning as a horse. I’ll live with Miss Kitty and Patches, munch grass, and run with the wind.”

            Harold looked at his packrat friend. “Well, I guess anything is possible. But I see you more as a Mule than a horse. Yes, Miles the Mule. I like that.”

Dawn

          The morning dawned clear and beautiful. The leaves outside seemed to dance with the wind, acting as if they were on center stage, while the greening of the world began to fade to shades of crimson and gold.

            Harold walked down the stairs, dressed in a business suit. Miles, he had moved to his favorite hidey hole, perched next to his autographed copy of “Season of the Snake,” washed his face with his packrat hands.

            “Good morning, Miles,” Harold said.

            “Is it a good morning, Harold?”

            Harold scratched the top of his head. His hair, fully materialized, was a receding matt of gray. He removed two bits of toilet paper stuck to his chin, relishing the feel of a freshly shaved chin.

            “Miles, do I look around 58? I need to look like I would look if I had, well, you know, lived. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in.”

            Miles, surprised by the serious tone Harold utilized, sat up tall and straight. “Yes, Harold, you look splendid and age appropriate.”

            Harold smiled, which exposed two dimples and laugh lines that circled his mouth. Miles thought that at one time, Harold would have been considered a very handsome man.

            “Did you cut yourself shaving,” Miles asked.

            Harold laughed, a low rumble that reminded Miles of the sound Miss Patches made when she found a totally excellent clump of grass.

            “I haven’t shaved for a long time, Miles. I’m surprised I didn’t cut my head off.”

            Miles laughed, only because he didn’t want to cry. Oh, he thought, the world of humans. What would I do without them?

Dusk

          When Miss Kitty returned with a very small and a very large glass of water, she wondered at the silence that filled the cabin like a black out curtain. She longed for the good old days of summer, when the three of them would sit together, play music, laugh, and sing.

            “Harold, are you all right?”

            Harold, rubbing his chin, said, “I think I need to shave.”

            He turned, and slowly trudged back up the stairs to his room in the attic.

            Miles, sipping the ice-cold water, looked up in time to see Miss Kitty brushing tears from her freckled cheeks. He wished he could comfort her, and hold her in his arms while she cried. But he wasn’t very big, and really, he wasn’t very good with emotions that far outsized his packrat dimensions. He finished his water, and in spite of his fear of unwieldy human emotions, he walked over to Miss Kitty, and held out his packrat hands.

            She looked down, and seeing Miles, packrat hands extended to the heavens, she bent over and scooped him up. He ran up her arm and nestled on her shoulder, whispering, “There, there, everything is going to be just fine,” into her ear, just like his Irish Mum had done for him when he was a wee packrat crying because the English packrats were making fun of him.

            Miss Kitty, exhausted from digging up the grave, dehydrated from the effects of the autumn/summer sun, and overcome with emotion, went over and sat in Harold’s rocking chair.

            Miles and Miss Kitty looked out the front door as dusk triumphed over the day, and in turn, faded into night. The stars winked and wobbled, acting like they didn’t have a care in the world.

The Grave

           Miss Kitty, sweat pouring down her forehead, walked into the cabin, followed by Miles the packrat, who wiped his paws on the doormat before entering.

            Harold, upstairs in his attic pacing the floor, ran down the stairs as soon as he heard them come in. In his excitement, he forgot to apparate clothes on his ghostly frame.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “I think you forgot your robe.”

            Harold turned pink, and before Miles could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” a pink robe appeared around Harold’s bony body.

            “Sorry, Miss Kitty,” Harold said, lowering his eyes (but not his head because he didn’t want it falling off and further embarrass him).

            Miss Kitty flashed her new smile. “No worries, Harold.”

            “Well,” Harold said. “Did you find anything?”

            Miles twitched his tail back and forth. “Harold, where have your manners gone? Flown East for the day, hmmm? Miss Kitty and I are hot, sweaty, thirsty, and famished.”

            Harold rubbed his bony fingers together as real salty tears gathered in his big blue eyes.

            “I’m sorry. Sit down, Miss Kitty. Would you like some tea and cookies, or perhaps some cool water from the Artesian well?”

            Miss Kitty wasn’t sure what Miles had said to Harold, but she suspected that Miles had chastised Harold for his impatience.

            “Harold,” Miss Kitty said, “Thank-you, but I think you need to sit down. I’ll go and fetch Miles and I some water.”

            Miss Kitty left the room, giving Miles a look that, well, could kill. Miles understood that Miss Kitty was uncomfortable giving Harold the news. Indeed, when they found Lilith’s grave beneath the white pine, they had agreed with nonverbal communication methods that Miles would be the one to inform Harold of the results of their expedition.

            Miles stood up on his hind feet and held on to the tip of his bushy tail.

            “We were successful, Harold,” Miles said. “We found the site, and Miss Kitty and I carefully dug up the grave and uncovered the remains of your Lilith.”

            Harold stood up, and said, "If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lune, I'd walk right to heaven, and bring you home again."

The White Pine

           Harold held the letter from Chad in his right hand. Afraid that he would faint, he sat in his rocking chair, and looked out the open front door. Outside, fall gathered its strength, taking its time in bidding summer adieu.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “Old boy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            Harold crumpled the letter, and threw it on the floor. “Smack Death killed us both,” Harold said, “And Chad thinks it's all just a bad dream.”

            “The black plague on Smack Death,” Miles said. “And mercy on Chad’s soul.”

            Harold took his head off his shoulders and rubbed his forehead. “Chad’s dying. No surprise, he has AIDS. I told him to stay away from needles, but he never listened to me.”

            Miles inhaled, counted to 7, and exhaled, thinking about the months he had spent with Harold. I’m going to miss this ghost, Miles thought, tears erupting in his packrat eyes.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “Did he inform you of the whereabouts of Lilith’s body, hmm?”

            Harold sobbed, a heart breaking sob that shook the floors of the cabin.

            “Beneath a pine tree my Lilith does lay. To be beside her, my soul does pray.”

            Miles wrinkled his nose, trying to remember the nightmare he had about a white cat. Miles ran to the back of the cabin, scurried up the window ledge, and looked out at the meadow where Patches liked to graze. In the middle of the meadow, one lone white pine towered like a beacon.

Dear Harold...

Dear Harold,

It was awesome to hear from you, bro. I was pretty sure you never wanted to talk to me again. I’m pretty sick and reckon the only way I’ll be leaving this hospital is in a box. But at least I know that you are ok and that you still think of me as a friend.

The doc says I have AIDS and that I’m not sane (duh). Whatever. I rolled the dice and now I’m paying the price, right?

Is Lilith ok? I had this terrible nightmare and Smack Death drugged her up on account of he thought she was a witch, only he gave her too much and she overdosed. He buried her under a pine tree at the cabin. In the nightmare, you came home and turned into a demon. The voices told Smack the only way to get rid of the demon was to cut its head off.

Crazy, right? It was like so real. But half the shit I see and hear aint really there at all. I should have listened to you and Lilith and sobered up, but that shit had me by the short hairs...

I feel like hammered dog shit, bro. But your letter and card has made my ending bearable.

Keep on making music, bro,

love, Chad

Let's Make Some Music

           

           Harold, head in his lap, stared out the window. Miss Kitty had insisted on cleaning his attic, and even hung up his assortment of instruments with special hooks she bought from Fiddlin’ Red’s Music store. He settled his head on his shoulders, stood up, and plucked his banjo off the wall.

            Miles, he sat on the corner table, darning a red jacket, waited for Harold to speak. Normally, Miles would be downstairs in his bookcase, taking a well-deserved nap. But Miles suspected that Harold would be bridging the gap between this reality and the next very soon, and he wanted to spend time with his ghostly friend.

            “The banjo is an excellent choice,” Miles said. “A happy instrument brought to America by the African American slaves, and eventually, designed and developed, it spread across the continent, and overseas to Europe.”

            Harold smiled. He would miss Miles and his wealth of information.

            “A happy instrument,” Harold said. “When I’m blue, I play the banjo, and it sweeps all my cares away.”

            Miles held back his tongue. He realized that Harold the headless ghost could have written beautiful songs, but his anger and denial had trapped him in this cabin, and the poetry and lyrics he had tried to compose were a reflection of a trapped soul. But now, Harold was almost free, and he would sojourn from this cabin and walk with the stars.

            “Soon,” Miles said, “you will free.”

            Harold smiled. “Well, until then, let’s make some music.”

After the Ink Dried

           After the ink on Harold’s forged signature dried, Miss Kitty put the letter in the envelope along with the get well card. “Are we going to mail it, or personally deliver it,” Miss Kitty said.

            Miles held his tail in his hands, gently blowing on the tip to dry it off. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s up to you, Miss Kitty.”

            “It’s up to you, Miss Kitty,” Harold said.

            “Well, honestly, I don’t relish another trip to KMC,” Miss Kitty said. “Hospitals make me break out in a rash. I, well, I spent some time in an institution in Boston before my parents decided to send me to a wayward rich kid school in Bonners Ferry.”

            “Did you get to go to boot camp,” Harold asked.

            Miss Kitty laughed, a rich and textured tone that sounded like doves taking flight. She started to cover her teeth with her tongue, but when she felt the smooth surface of her repaired front teeth, she stretched her lips in an elegant smile.

            “Yes, Harold. I got to go to boot camp. Trust me, at the time I felt it was a huge punishment and a major roadblock in my happy destiny. But that’s where I had my first exposure to horses, and that eventually brought me to Western Pleasure Guest Ranch, where I worked as a wrangler for a couple seasons. All these experiences changed my life for the better, in spite of myself.”

            Miles wished he could visit Western Pleasure. He had heard good things about the ranch, and wanted to see the horses running to their field in the evening.

            “Was Miss Patches a Western Pleasure pony?” Miles asked.

            “Miles wants to know where you got Miss Patches,” Harold said.

            “That’s like a really long story,” Miss Kitty said. “Patches was a neglected, untrained 3-year old. I kind of rescued her, and she totally saved me. Isaac, he lives at Western Pleasure, put 30 days of training on Miss Patches after I befriended her, and Vicky Fuller gave me riding lessons so I could finish the job.”

            Miles had a dreamy look on his face, which Harold interrupted with, “Stamps. We’ll need stamps to send this letter off.”

Forgiveness

     

            "Do you really forgive him, even if he killed you and Lilith,” Miles asked, dipping the tip of his tail into the bottle of ink Miss Kitty brought over.

            Harold scratched his forehead, and then stared at his wedding ring.

            Silent for once, Miles practiced copying the signature Harold had used on his wedding certificate.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “When Chad was high on crank, or whatever other drug, he became Smack Death. I do not forgive Smack Death. In fact, I’d like to kill him. But Chad, well, Chad was this really great drummer with a big heart and a wonderful sense of humor. He was like my brother. I have to forgive Chad. How else can I forgive myself?”

            Miss Kitty, perched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the attic where Harold was murdered, nodded her head.

            Miles swallowed a sob. He knew that if he started crying, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Why, he thought, my tears would flood this house and become a weapon of mass destruction. He wished he were a really big packrat, so he could embrace both his friends in a warm and fuzzy hug. Plus, he thought, my little body simply isn’t equipped for these really big emotions.

            Miles, satisfied with his rendition of Harold’s signature, dipped his tail in the ink one more time, and then signed the letter that they both wrote.

            Harold, leaning over, admired Miles’ work. “Why Miles,” Harold said, “that’s perfect. You are a packrat of many talents.”

            Miles, flustered at the compliment, started washing his paws. Miss Kitty brought a bowl full of water for Miles to clean his tail in. “Thank-you,” Miles said. “Thank-you both.”

The Letter

Dear Chad,

Sorry to hear that you are stuck at KMC. I’ve been a bit under the weather myself; otherwise I’d come and visit you. I asked my friend, Miss Kitty, to go and see you in my place. She informs me that you are not doing well, and I am truly sorry to hear that.

Remember the time we walked on the back edge of your mother’s property? You got stuck in a mud bog, and sank up to your waist in the bog. Your uncle rescued you, and your mom took pictures of us. We looked like mud monsters. We sure had a lot of good times together, getting into all kinds of mischief.

I think my fondest memories of us are from when we were still innocent children. We rode our bikes to the creek to fish and swim, designed home made firecrackers, and stole your dad’s lucky charm—the gold coin he claimed he found when he was a kid. Course, your grandpa told us the story of how your dad stole the coin from him, so I guess we were just continuing in the family tradition.

When we traded that coin for some drugs, well, I think our luck disappeared, and we have suffered for our addictions. The drugs stole our dreams, our pride, our conscious, and eventually, turned us into monsters. Whatever we did while we were using was a manifestation of the drugs. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, and my hope is that people will forgive me, because it was the drugs calling the shots, not me.

Chad, I want you to know that I love you, and forgive you for the things you did under the influence. What I hold on to is the memory of two rag muffin boys, a Mutt and Jeff team, running free in a field of daises, playing cowboys and Indians, smearing mud on their faces and putting feathers in their hair.

I love you bro,

Harold Siga

Get Well Card

           Miss Kitty brushed back her hair, using her thumb to pin the forever lose strand behind her ear. She hated when the hair tangled itself up in her eyebrow ring. Once, she tried growing her hair long enough to tie it into a ponytail, but the curls constantly disobeyed, and snaked around her brow like a devilish halo.

            “Dear Miles,” she typed into her smart phone. “I visited Chad at KMC. He is on suicide watch, going through withdrawals and still delusional. They did let me visit with him, but he won’t tell me anything until he can talk to Harold.”

            Miles, snacking on a Dove chocolate bar, washed his jaw, nose, ears, tail, and paws before he sent Miss Kitty a reply message.

            “Can you buy a get well card for Chad on your way home? Harold and I will type him up a letter, and mail it to him. That’s the best we can do in this unusual situation.”

            “Ok,” Miss Kitty replied.

            “Well,” Harold said. Harold had his head on his shoulders, and was dressed in tan carpenter pants, a pink t-shirt, and sandals. His blue eyes were cased in shadows, and it looked like he had decided to try growing a beard.

            “Chad won’t discuss anything with Miss Kitty until he talks to you. He’s delusional, suicidal, and going through withdrawals. I think we should write the bastard a letter, Harold.”

            “He’s probably paranoid, Miles. And I doubt he’ll believe that it’s me. He did, after all, kill me.”

            Miles scratched his ear, giving himself a few seconds to think. As far as Miles was concerned, the powers that be should just let Chad, AKA Smack Death, kill himself and save everyone time and energy. On the other hand, Harold needed some kind of ending; Harold needed the truth.

            “Miss Kitty is buying a get well card. You can write the letter, Harold. I’ll type it in. After all, you know Chad, and can provide intimate details that only you and Chad know. We’ll print the letter out, forge your signature, and send it to KMC. What do you think?”

            Harold sighed, which sounded like the last gasping breath of a recently hooked fish. “Sounds like a workable plan,” Harold said.

           

Land of the Living

Miles, he had beady eyes and a pointy nose, washed his almost human like hands gingerly, blowing each molecule of dust off them. His black fur had thickened, which indicated the upcoming winter would be a cold one. His tail swished back and forth as if it had a life of its own.

            “Good stuff in and bad stuff out,” Miles said loudly.

            Harold, wringing his thin boney hands, sighed audibly.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “We need to ascertain if Chad really killed Lilith. And if he did, we need to find her body.”

            “We could work on your latest song,” Miles said, trying to sound chipper.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “I appreciate the gesture. But I’m bone tired and feeling, well, I feel as if I am running out of time. We need to find Lilith, dead or alive, and we need to put my affairs in order.”

            Miles stood up on his hind feet, trying to look as large as a not very big packrat could. As much as Miles wanted Harold to recover and move on to his next dimension in life, Miles hated goodbyes, and especially did not want to have to say farewell to Harold the Ghost.

“I understand,” Miles said, one salty tear falling out of his left eye, like a drop of rain. “But we’ll need Miss Kitty’s assistance, and after the police came and arrested Mr. Death for an assortment of outstanding warrants and hauled him off to KMC for a psychiatric evaluation, Miss Kitty rode Miss Patches home. I’m betting she’s taking a well deserved nap.”

“Yes, of course,” Harold said, rubbing his left knee. Harold had tore his ACL trying to ski. He couldn’t keep up with Lilith on her snowboard. "She was so full of life, Miles," Harold said. "A bit wild, but she had a big heart. She helped me get clean and sober, and she insisted that we at least try to get Chad on the sobriety path.”

Miles nodded his head. Packrats liked to drink now and again, but packrat’s did not stuff white powder up their nostrils, much less smoke or inject it. Indeed, Miles had a difficult time imagining why anyone would do that to themselves.

“I was young,” Harold said, as if he were reading Miles' mind, “and didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. But when I snorted Crank, why, I became the person I thought I should be. I could perform on stage, and I was the center of the universe. Course, it wasn’t long before the drugs and alcohol had me in their vice-like grip. I was lucky, Miles. Lilith saved me. Chad, he had nobody, and I think he crossed the line. He’s insane, and I doubt he can cross the line back into the land of the living.”