I had never met one so tired.
Maybe I was simply projecting. Intrusive thoughts are like that, sometimes.
Half strewn and baked across the sidewalk, half resting on desperate grass, the corpse stretched out as if relaxing in the Sun.
It is hard for the spirit to decay into its separate essences, for the Self to shed the meanings of fur and flesh and Bone when there is no means of rest. The road was loud, the sidewalk possessing only those who would not notice or those who would be unsympathetic.
Except, for us. Those whose behaviors occasionally sing of instinct, the One Who Paints With Words, and the one who, today, Decides How the Universe Chews.
A halo of fur betrayed the animal's color. A hue of dusty sunsets, once loved by gentle hands, perhaps. Something soon to be forgotten, save for within the nests of birds.
The smell was familiar. I coughed, though I no longer gag like I did when I was interested merely in anatomy, now that I understand the language of Bones. But this corpse was different, the scent of asphalt had seeped into the summer cured skin, earthy rot compounded with the breath of cars.
The skull had long been broken, possibly from a passing vehicle, likely from a passing boot. People were often unkind to the verminous Dead, unaware of their eventual similarity. Teeth jutted out from broken skin, and somewhere between them was likely a tongue so dry from thirst.
I whispered a greeting, loud enough for Bones, but too quiet for the road.
The paw was stiff, more akin to bark, then to flesh. It had been so long, possibly weeks, before anything had touched the skin with gentleness. But I was able to help him up, and they peeled from their place of unrest reluctantly. As she shifted, the wet smell of rot grew stronger, and he was placed gently within their utilitarian funeral shroud.
Windows down, faces in the breeze, the three of us left. My car was once again an unorthodox hearse for those who do not understand headstones. She was quiet in the backseat as we discussed previous encounters.
It was quiet, where I brought him. Where they were to stay, until the bones had shaken themselves loose. It was someplace where he wouldn't be disturbed, save for the rain, and I playfully greeted the one who I had brought there before. The vertebra dangled, and rattled with a joviality that comes when the dead is beloved.
I prepared the Earth with water, to rinse the space and Mark where they would lay. And then I went to collect my passenger, carrying them over decaying logs, and friendly bones, whispering niceties and cooing my appreciation after I crossed the boundary.
Surprised by the demand that was not a sound, I dumped the animal from the bag, and they landed with a dry thud.
They were just. So. Tired.
I gently arranged the corpse, which had no need for gentleness, other than for respect, and was more interested in being allowed to rest. More water was poured over the thirsty, sun-dried animal, and the water pooled in the desiccated chest cavity as an offering to entropy.
Some of the other bones were ready to go, but we were familiar, and friendly, and I stained my fingers with Earth as I collected them, to take them where they would be loved, and have many things to say. But, some stayed, to keep the other company, and to bask in their own decay. I would be back in a few days, with carrot flowers, and clovers, and water, and kind words.
There was a night of poetry, of stories, and art, and the bones were left to rest.
When I got home, I pulled the small round soapstone box from the shrine of Bones, sliding the graveyard dirt out of the way. When I lifted the lid, I gently touched the black fur, seeming grayer these days, and told her who I had met, and asked if she could go say hello, once they had been given some time to rest.
