A heaviness. As heavy as heavy comes. A washing of tingles drips from my hair and slides down my body.
There is nothing to do but wait and see. The wandering eyes point at me but look through me, only occasionally forming the jewels of the face I knew.
We’re watching the last of the moments and hearing the last of the breaths, spluttered from a fluid lung. The time has come, as it often does. Never wanted, but always expected. Always expected, and in this case expressed with an uncomfortable welcome.
It isn’t fair for the dead to live, but we’ve grown effective at making it happen. Only somewhat does the widow accept, for she wishes not to entertain it.
‘It’s not fair’ is the cry that echoes. The moon is waning now, and colour drains to the lowest of the skin.
Goodbye to you, and thank you.