So I’m digging away, trying to put in some sort of flower beds in my rocky garden. It is foggy. It is cold. And I am not amused. That is what happens when you live in a house built on gold mine tailings. Rocks. Nothing but river rocks coated in a tiny bit of dirt and a shit load of weed seeds.
I’ve got the pick ax out, and I’m jamming the shovel in a hole, with the cold nose of a ninety pound German Shepard in my face, when I FINALLY get the last rock loose before I can plant a small dwarf lime tree. The dog goes nuts. I push her away and pull out the rock.
It isn’t a rock.
It is a skull.
A human skull.
My son comes out with a fresh cup of coffee for me (did I mention it was cold.) He looked at the skull and then calls up to the house.
“Hey Dad, she found another one.” Then he turns to me. “This one is small. Man, woman, or child?”
I toss the skull in my garden gloved hands. “It might be a woman but you never know.”
“Want me to put it with the others?”
“Sure,” I said, handing the skull to my sweet teenager.
I could hear him in the side yard opening the 50 gallon Rubbermaid storage container, and dropping in the skull.
He came back to me after about a minute. “Hey Mom, the container is almost full.”
I took a deep breath. “That’s a lot of skulls.”
He gave me an uncomfortable look. “It sure is. Who do you think they are?”
I put my arm around his waist and gave him a hug. “I have no idea. But thanks for the coffee sweetie. Let’s go in. I think I’m done out here today.”