It was a sunny day, but her vapours still veiled me. Her
morning mist, hovering above the still Earth in earliest dawn, still consumed
me. She lay before me, peaceful and still as always, her eyes gently closed to
the stars, awaiting the communion of a kiss, not ponderous - never one to
flutter.
The birds chirruped, their calls and song carried easily in the stillness. The
soft spongy earth gave wing to the spring flowers, that smell of April – soft,
airy. Like hands cupped to pool rain water, transforming it into honeysuckle,
into bee nectar. The earth is like her: it transfigures. If only my memory
could do the same.
Her gravestone is still as clear as ever, etched whitely like an invisible
message written into chalk cliff-face. Two years gone, her body rests beneath
the earth in a shroud. I place the irises atop the faux emerald stones, the
violet and purple flowers perfectly coupling the deep green.
A noise carried on the wind makes me stir. I turn, curious and stunned. But it
is not her voice that I hear; just the distant mutterings of an old lady,
mourning somewhere amongst the endless rows of graves.
