Today I exhumed your body to see if I could breathe life into something long dead and buried. Part of me expected to find you in the perfect form you worked so hard to maintain and preserve. Instead I found you decomposed and unattractive. I examined you like a coroner with only scientific fascination, then realized how upset you would be to have anyone see you in this fashion. So I wrapped you in green moss, tucked Mr. Henry under your left arm, laid Anne of Green Gables open on your chest, and returned you to the ground. I suppose I could have cremated you and put you to rest on the same wind that blew me into life, but was afraid a gust might carry you back ‘round.
George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question. She is the author of Christmas Eve 2007.