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Last Rites.
May. 11th, 2009 04:43 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
shoelace009.livejournal.comPeering upwards, I saw them more clearly possibly than ever before. The ones who shed a tear or two and pulled back folds of wrinkled skin into grimaces. The ones who looked down as expected only breaking their dutiful though ingenuine silence to look at the road down the hill, the one leading to their homes and computers and lives, or to anxiously rub their wrists where their watches would be, time calling to them. The ones who didn't seem like they belonged there at all- in fact I don't think they did. And her. The most singular of them all. Standing behind a black skirt and next to some tie. Her. Clutching her elbows across her chest and concentrating on a painfully steady pattern of breathing, ever so often broken by a shaking wind through her body.
I stared at her and ached to reach out and stroke her palm with my index finger, to trace the lines of sorrow so delicately masked in her face, to sit her on my knee and show her the storm wasn't real- that it was only some wind and rain and thunder, just for show. I wanted to show her that this was God's way of reminding her he is there, somewhere forgotten in the plans and dates and problems of her life.
They all got their got their hands dirty. They followed tradition blindly without judging or choosing. She was the only one who couldn't go through with it, the only one who dropped a clod of soil onto the grass and walked away, disappearing behind all the black statues and blank faces. She stomped up the hill, measuring distances between each stride like she always had as a little girl when she was thinking. Then she paused, resting a hand on some stone or another and crouching down, clutching her necklace. There was nothing dramatic noticed by the rest. This was as much about her as I, as in not at all. But as the bell tolled, the one for them, she let out a shudder that shook her whole body. I heard nothing but it was then that I felt myself part from her, my hand ripped from her grasp. As I stared, I watched her push against the muddy ground with her palms and get up with dirty shins. She got into the car and drove away. Then, just then, I turned over in my grave.
I stared at her and ached to reach out and stroke her palm with my index finger, to trace the lines of sorrow so delicately masked in her face, to sit her on my knee and show her the storm wasn't real- that it was only some wind and rain and thunder, just for show. I wanted to show her that this was God's way of reminding her he is there, somewhere forgotten in the plans and dates and problems of her life.
They all got their got their hands dirty. They followed tradition blindly without judging or choosing. She was the only one who couldn't go through with it, the only one who dropped a clod of soil onto the grass and walked away, disappearing behind all the black statues and blank faces. She stomped up the hill, measuring distances between each stride like she always had as a little girl when she was thinking. Then she paused, resting a hand on some stone or another and crouching down, clutching her necklace. There was nothing dramatic noticed by the rest. This was as much about her as I, as in not at all. But as the bell tolled, the one for them, she let out a shudder that shook her whole body. I heard nothing but it was then that I felt myself part from her, my hand ripped from her grasp. As I stared, I watched her push against the muddy ground with her palms and get up with dirty shins. She got into the car and drove away. Then, just then, I turned over in my grave.
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