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Description
Dream of a Funeral

Room. Dimmed lights. Dark clothes. Sombre air.

Side by side. Slumped people. Running makeup slipping to the ground.

Look up. The air is heavy with sorrow. It presses against my skin, seeping into my blood.

People get up, then file to the front. Echoes of consolation flutter through the room.

I join the wave, ebbing to the stage. Hesitant steps, and I fall in with them.

Finally reach the front, and my throat chokes and the tears spring to my eyes.

No.

Please.

Her lips, turned down. Hair, framing her cold, lifeless skin. A discoloured silver
necklace, drawing my eyes to the ring of bruises around her neck.

This can't be right.

Suddenly I'm no longer there. I'm walking with her laughing, comforting, supporting.
Looking out for each other. See the gentle tears in her eyes, reach out with a hand
of reassurance.

The brilliant smile radiates from her.

Many memories flicker by, like the frames of film.
Smile.
Cry. Laugh.
Live. Love. Write.

The film snaps, and I stand at her casket, hands digging into my sides, quietly retching
at the scene.

I almost want to reach out, and hold her hand. To check her pulse. To see if there is an
angel's beat.

I step back, and quickly walk out the hall.

She was always a dark-winged angel, one with broken wings. But she still knew how to fly.

I turn back to the hall, and feel the depression spilling out.

Would it be wrong if I asked you to take me with you?