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I cast her in. The hole isn't big enough for her. One leg sticks up above the edge and I can't push it down. I cover her and my hands are grey with dirt, the dirt that falls in her eyes, in her mouth, in her belly button; and now her face is gone, and now her arms and breasts go; and now she is only one white foot sticking out, which I put dirt around and push it, soft and grey, to her toes. I tramp the dirt down, and Feather-Ass sets my mother's axe head beside the hole, at the edge opposite from where the dirt rises around her foot like a piss-ant's hill.
I say, "Now she's buried, and we may journey on to find porcupines and pigs and edible roots." And now my people look away and are quiet. And now now old Feather-Ass looks at me. And shakes his head.
And makes the sign for "no".
There's a break here, so I'll stop for now.