Posted by William on November 29, 2011
The news came, as surely as a rain cloud pockets pennies of a copper sun. “She’s gone.” In a heap of tears, clippings from the grass of love, her son dissolves as if he’s sugar in your tea. Your arms are all he has this hour, to push the sand through grieving glass.
He would be alone this day, if not for ways you comfort him. You pack her things, stack them neatly in the shed, crack the nuts of diaries and close them fondly like a book. She left instructions with her Will.
“If you quibble over the junk mail of my earthly presence I shall come back to haunt you, all of you.”
The note she penned three years ago – a little sermon rubbing elbows with a grave. Her signature, a joyous scribble on the page, nectar and ambrosia, dots on i’s like daisies in a flower pot– as if her life were a lover with whom she had magnificent, magnanimous, oily, scented, perfect coitus minus semen of regret.