With love for MADAME MAN'HA GARREAU-DOMBASLE met twenty-seven years ago in the graveyard at midnight on the Island of Janitzio at Lake Patzcuaro, Mexico, and remembered on each anniversary of the Day of the Dead.
It was a small town by a small river and a small lake in a small northern part of a Midwest state.
Night came out from under each tree and spread. 
The tall man shut up his smile like a bright pocketknife. 
"The Undiscovered Country. Out there. Look long, look deep, make a feast. The Past, boys, the Past. Oh, it's dark, yes, and full of nightmare. Everything that Halloween ever was lies buried there. Will you dig for bones, boys? Do you have the stuff?" 
But in that instant of darkness, the night swept in. A great wing folded over the abyss. Many owls hooted. Many mice scampered and slithered in the shadows. A million tiny murders happened somewhere.
The clouds, like gauzy scenes, were pulled away to set a clean sky. The moon was there, a great eye. 
The scythe fell and lay in the grass like a lost smile.