There were five SO units across the street yesterday afternoon for quite awhile. I’d heard no sirens, so the sight of all the lights troubled me. I’m not usually nosy, but if it was a B & E or strongarm, I wanted to know.

pretty good picture considering I took it through my front window

After about 3 hours only one unit remained. Arthur had arrived home and enlightened me to the fact that someone had died and the deputy was waiting with the body, to make sure it was undisturbed until the funeral home showed up. He works for a Hospice and is used to such things.
Neither of us knew who lived in that house.

My first impulse was to cook.

“I should make a casserole”
“For…? Nobody’s there anymore”
“Maybe relatives will come?”

If I make it will they come? Where does that spring from; the deeply ingrained need to cook for survivors? When my father died the house was full to bursting with food… and nobody felt like eating; the ultimate irony.

Maybe a pie? Surely not even grieving relatives could turn down a good pecan pie.