Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Baby Driver by Jan Kerouac

At twilight, a long procession of little boys filed solemnly up to our hut. The first carried a tiny empty coffin on his head. I was lighting the lamps as they stared at me in awe and whispered to each other. The sepulchral hush was shattered as John reluctantly drove down the nails. Then they carried her away.

When the rains came I got sad for the first time. I thought of my poor baby in the ground being inundated, under the banana palms where she was buried. With the rains came also an aching flow of milk, and the name of Natasha, but it was too late for that.

...a wild menagerie of souls all mourning my Natasha, and the rain fell in torrents, a deafening din pounding on every broad leaf and fern.