The words over at Three Word Wednesday are beacon, grieve and kindred.
She grieves at my graveside.
I know I shouldn’t watch – I should got to the light and all that – but it fascinates me so to be the observer in death that I couldn’t be in life.
Like the touching tribute from the guys when they poured a fifth of Scotch on the fresh, unturned hump of my grave.
Only, not my brand.
Or my sister, a beacon in my life, the inspiration for my career, waiting for the quiet emptiness of dusk to scream obscenities at my temporary headstone. Apparently, I was as much a fuck-up in life as I am in death.
Good to know.
She waited a full week after the funeral to come back. My kindred spirit in life. My lover, my one true friend.
As much as she tried, she just couldn’t quite silence the demons who whispered incessantly in my ears to make things easier on everybody and just fade away.
She tosses a plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies into the dirt and takes an unfiltered Camel from a wrinkled pack. She lights it quick with my Zippo – at least it’ll be put to good use – pushes her black skirt between her knees and squats over raw earth. She scratches her ear while rolling the cigarette in her lips and tilts her head in earnest study of individual dirt clods.
She falls to her knees, swings wildly at the dirt with delicate fists.
When she’s punched herself out, she turns and flops her back onto the grave. She’s watching leaves flutter in the wind, taking huge drags on the cigarette.
Surprisingly, she breaks out into an immense smile.
Did not see that coming.