We make saints of celebrities and mourn their lives, eager to be the first to post of their passing, but all we know is the characters they played. The Reaper’s wagon was full this year.

“They just meant so much to me,” everyone says, inflating their grief for attention.

“It’s like a part of me died, too,” everyone says.

The house still needs a cleaning. The dishes still need to be washed. The garbage sits by the door as the trucks rumbles on down the street.

We change the channel, looking for an altar, somewhere for our prayers to land.


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