i. Ad eorum memoriam quos valde amo
colourfuless
The branches. They rattle like bones.
She can still recall a day when they slid against each other neatly, wet with rainwater and lush with all kinds of greens. When they kissed with perfect harmony and nothing, not wind nor storm, could render them wretched. But now all they do is shiver. Their lungs clatter like emptying jars.
Her voice is hoarse, unsweetened and rough, like a scorpion being pushed through a bottle. But her neck is still long and lovely; her one last beauty. With it she once used to be coy. Flirtatious, even. But today, the black collar of her dress is not tightly buttoned for the sake of enticement. Between the clasps lies her heart. It used to struggle but is now quiet and tame between the metal. It beats with the steadiness of nothing.
The black procession is long, but moves with the grace of a waltz. He would have liked that, things being efficient and neat. Each handkerchief pressed, hands clasped. No overt display of tears or affection. Just conservative grief. She tries so hard, even though it is against her nature. She quells her fire and her water and her ice. She makes her way quietly to the casket.
Their final moment arrives. Some people watch. Some people look away. Some people turn their backs on her and walk off to join the growing pool of mourning near the bottom of the hill. She does the same; showing the back of her ivory neck to them, her last shred of dignity, touches his cold hand with a tenderness she hasn't shown him in a long time.
'Sorry for leaving,' her inner voice says, the one that still retains a touch of childishness and silk, from back during that time. 'But you knew I couldn't stay. Even at its best, we understood.'
'Doesn't mean I didn't want to.'
That thread of truth unravels from the clutches of her tightly buttoned heart. If that should make any difference, she doesn't know yet. If she will burst at the seams with all her truths and lies, she doesn't know yet. Leaning over his body, a small hand on his still chest, she kisses his forehead, and retreats. Her lip doesn't quiver. Her eyes don't fill.
But the buttons of her dress pull at the cloth more and more urgently. She clutches the ones that hold her heart together tightly in her hands.
'All good things take time, you said to me once. But since then everything has moved so slowly, and I am still wandering.'
A few watch. A few whisper. Only a handful stand and watch, that slender neck forever turned away, descend the opposite side of the hill in silence.