Journal, May 25, 1976 PM

The old lady who ran the boarding house near old Peace Corps Office, the one I’ve stayed at alone or with some of the pastures and forages group so many times, died yesterday. She was killed in a gruesome accident less than a block from her front door, run over by a bus. It made the front page of “La Prensa Grafica” {local daily newspaper}. I feel like I should do something, but they probably buried her today already, and I hardly know anyone at the place except her. And there’s nothing to be done for her now. She was a good, decent human being. If there’s a heaven she’s already there, and if not she lives on in her children. Here one day, gone the next, the suddenness and finality of death never stop being surprising (when it’s someone you knew).

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