Things die all year 'round

Dead Mouse in front of our town house
Tiny stiff claws curled up
beneath its whiskers
Soft gray fur almost...
so small you could cup it in your hands.
And keep it as a little pet.  If it were alive.  
We've just come back from my aunt's burial
Tiny stiff hands curled up under her chin.
Like a mouse.  Or a fetus.
"Why do more people die in April?"
I ask my husband on the way to the burial
(I'm thinking of my father.)
"Didn't you say that once?"
"People die all year round."
he answers.
Thinking of I don't know what.
I don't cry when they
lower her coffin into the grave.
I look around to see if things look different.
I don't feel more alive.
I don't feel much of anything.
Not even fear.
Just a very distant dread.
As soft as a leaf falling on the ground.
As soft as a wire floating on my neurons.
Last night I had a strange dream.
A family was looking for their lost pet.
What does it look like, I asked.
It's a rat they replied.
They found it.
Running between the trees.
As large as a cat.
As docile as a mouse.