He dreamed of you. He dreamed of you last night or this morning. You and there in a room off the main restaurant-bar place. Not real except in memory, in imagination and in places of sound and silence. For a few minutes, they were hiding as they always did, away from everyone. He searched through the few moments of privacy, where women and men or women and women or men and men go to touch, to smile, to whisper, to share and to be alive. In those precious moments of time touch and heartbeat, he was never a lonely soul in a dying world. You were life for a few heartbeats.
Her face and form danced within his dream. Tiny freckles, lips to laugh, eyes to dance and ears to hear the music of words and silence. Underneath a table and cloth they pressed together knee-to-knee. Then dream gone…Never explanations of nothing but life and why and gain and lost and oh…he thought you may have died and visited on your way star-side, just to let him know they were still…
Once upon a sailing ship, he saw her gown as the morning sun poured (if the morning sun can pour through anything) through a window and filled the doorway-sun-side framing her body as the opaque texture of her clothing changed because of the light, into a thin and transparent breeze across the shadow of her curves and her beauty and…never before had she been more naked or more clothed than she was on that morning.
Friends and caskets and funerals without flowers. Less mourners and small lines. What is left are folk circles talking and laughing and…Caskets usually look the same except for the little ones. These caskets are always too small and too heavy and hard to carry. A spiritual death?
This depends on the casket bearers and their knowledge of the little one. Inside those tiny boxes is a sorrow so; unexpected, unrequited, unresolved and not replaceable as the sorrow is unnatural. But here, inside the October City, the pressure of the cooker is a great and steaming beast as real as puppies in May and the death of a baby. It hurts and the parent so misses the child that is no longer with her.
However, puppy grows into dog and kittens lose interest in chasing streaks of yellow or green ribbon. Instead, they rest beneath the bright and benevolent sun, warm of bone and slowed with age. They live and they pass by naturally. They come into this world, into this cycle, into pleasure and into pain. And! With time their animation ends…
The mother cries against his shoulder and his shirt is damp because of her endless supply of tears. She is phantom. He fears that on this long walk down this even longer aisle he may let her fall. This path has been followed too many times. The long walking aisle. There are those memories of other mothers and widows and fathers and of old men, and not so many of them anymore. He has never dropped anyone. Grief and grief and more grief and the gods listen to their cries and watch as tears enough fill basins as grows this insane sorrow.
No failure – because they lean against one another for balance and weakness and sorrow and memory and love.
Now! He walks with her down a carpeted aisle. It is an aisle-covered almost knee-deep in flowers that cannot be correct. They are too sweet a perfume to be real and they grow from metal stands and glass vases. Memory is a rattling frail movie without projector but still inside their minds. He has helped a few survivors through shattered hours of loss, of incredible loss, of baby loss, a sacred loss and a savaged proof that loss is not a sustainable reason for life. Loss is loss and hell is not replaced by heaven. It never disappoints those suffering the curses of death and sacred loss.
He is positive that he has never dropped anyone. Yes! Their precious sorrow and the gentle leaning into one another and following this worn carpet toward the words and tears that ends a little dream and begins another and well-oiled reality, is the now in this moment of life.
And! Beautiful you are…
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