Sometimes the crop’ll fail. Sometimes all the crops’ll fail, and it ain’t anyone’s fault, there wasn’t something right you didn’t do. All the praying and plowing and caring over them seeds ain’t a guarantee. You do your best to put those odds in your favor but it’s always outta your hands at the end of it.
If you’re lucky, you got enough stored up to get you through, and you don’t owe anybody anything you can’t pay, and you can make a go again. But if you was lucky, it wouldn’t’ve failed in the first place, now would it? And so sometimes you’re packing up what you got to walk away and looking for someplace you can spend the winter and put food in your stomach and see through to spring.
Humans and animals, when we die, we go in the earth. Mara takes us apart so we can do other things. Souls go where souls wanna go, but bodies get to feed all kinds of other things. Someone else rotting’s gonna maybe turn into the best blessing you’ll ever get. Life’s like that too. That farm’s dying, sure, and that farmer’s self is dying. But she’ll go on and do something else, and someone else’ll make a go of the farm in a year or two.
Sometimes the body dies and sometimes the life ends and the body keeps going.
I got shit-all idea where I’m gonna spend the winter, but my crop’s good and failed and there’s nothing left for me here. The maggots’re asking what’s left of me, but I ignore them.
On the way out I left offerings. Mara take the dead me. Mara guide what’s left.