the Whispers
The air smells sweet; dangerous, somehow. Makes her think of roses after a funeral, left in heaps to rot. And this isn't what she came here to remember, but the daisies in her fist feel foolish now.
She kneels; the ground shouldn't be so cold, she thinks. Since it's nearly May. Springtime everywhere else. Bursting into blossom but she's falling to the ground.
The grass is dying. It doesn't make sense; there were caretakers, after all. And he had family. But then, she hadn't seen them since the funeral. Rains had come, and what had happened to the grass? Dying, dying, and she doesn't understand.
Whispers fall frozen to the earth. No. Please, no. Echoes of screams, shadows of silence and black. The silence was always worse than the screaming.
They said that he had died a hero. But nobody had told her that heroes had to die.
It's too cold, she finally decides. Brushes the dirt off of her knees. Tries to leave behind the pity and the whispers.
A tree had bloomed too early and dropped its buds. Everything too early these days. Tears fall into these torn petals, sweetly spun.