Not dead. Just sleeping.

We say goodbye, yes. But we can't really stay away. We itch and miss and there's something not right in the not doing. The not doing of.

Seven years we funtioned, unfunded, unsupported. Seat of our pantsing it and it was hard and we hated it and we loved it and we hated each other and loved each other and always disagreed and for the most part left each other the hell alone, in our spheres, and knew that though we did not agree with each other's choices, that did not mean that those decisions were without value or merit. We liked the way things worked. Things worked well. And we don't like not doing it.

Our unfunded and unsupported position was, of course, untenable.

A chef we know was driving through the south. Late and foggy and him driving alone. A truck passed fast on the right, the bed a wire mesh cage, packed floor to top with dead chickens. A few minutes later, out of the fog, another truck, same as the other, passed fast on the left.

Some miles up he stopped for gas, asked the lady behind the counter what was up with the trucks full of dead chickens.

"Maybe they was sleeping."