Last night I went to bed with death's ghosts. In the book, on the dining room rug laid out flat, facing away. Today is Easter, the black dog's last best chance. The worst thing about the dead is the inappropriateness of continuing to call their name at lunchtime. Soup! Mallards are reckless. Bello stands too close. He pins my pant leg to the deck with his paw. Now I worry as he makes his way to the unfinished edge, the last plank before the long drop. Squirrels give me the heebie-jeebies since the last installment of the lemming dreams. Maybe my animal spirit is not Prairie dog. I feel nervous that I won't get this day right.