Skeletons in the Closet

by Tibor Krausz
From dust to dust, more or less.
“There lies my grandmother!” exclaims the prickly-haired 20-year-old Sagadan curiously named Birdy, who has volunteered to be my guide. Casting my gaze horizontally in search of a tombstone, I find his index finger directing my eyes heavenward.

There in the middle-distance, on a rock-face high overhead, hang pinewood