Finding dead bugs was easy.
Acquiring the right size for the coffin was more a challenge. Mom bought the Diamond kitchen-sized box of matches with the red heads as big as the end of your pinkie. Those boxes were only good for mice or a small bird. But those weren’t the creatures I dealt with—they had blood and guts. Bugs, on the other hand, died without mess—dried up, weightless, brittle. A dead bug was easy to ignore. A bug cemetery seemed somehow suitable for them.
