In a goth store on Burnside, stepping out of the rain, my daughter knocks over a tower of ceramic skulls. Someone is dying, I say, as an apology. The last time you were alive, you wanted certain things: strawberries with cream, horror movies from the library, morphine. The last time you were alive, we watched the weather lights through your window. Red means storms, you said. Back in Texas, I accept your ashes from a red-haired mailman. Alfred E. Neuman holding a box marked HUMAN REMAINS. None of this is happening, not the idling mail truck in the heat, not my dog, pressing against my leg, not the mailman's idiot grin. Soon you visit everyone in dreams, except me. So I throw a party. Tropic-hot and lantern-lit, in the darkest part of the yard. Old Fashioneds and a marching band and some kind of lemon custard. In the dream, the party is loud. In the dream, there are too many kittens. In the dream, I am pouring milk into crystal bowls. In the dream, the tubas are giving me a headache. In the dream, your dress is old-fashioned, striped and pinched at the waist. In the dream, everything's in color but you have a black and white face. In the dream, I hear you say: the human remains