hearse ovenbird Her father is a mortician, and he looks the part: tall and dark and thin enough to have just stepped from the confines of a pine box rimed with dirt. Tattoos poke out from beneath the rolled sleeves of his black dress shirt. His long, pale fingers are made for embalming. I can imagine the care he takes with each body, his quiet attention. The dead must be comforted by his translucent aura. He has the air of one who might step from this world to the spirit realm at any moment. She is as willowy as her father, though bright to his dark, with long blonde hair and a tendency towards the dramatic. When he picks her up for the weekend, in the hours just after dark, he arrives in a vintage hearse, black as a grieving heart, with silver embellishments scrolling over the elongated back. He’s almost invisible in his black clothes against the black upholstered interior. She is a white-hot flame, all concentrated energy and vibrant potential. She isn’t dimmed by the hearse’s shadowy interior. I watch ghosts reach out to touch the gold silk of her living hair. She sings as they pull away into the night. 260425 what's it to you? who go blather from