She stares out the window of her lonely room, watching the street below through the rivulets of water, blue and grey; washed away. Azure blue, the sky briefly shows itself, and sunlight temporarily blinds her. Elderly dry eyes watch as the dark clouds once again overtake the blue, and rain pounds against the glass.
The rain beats down and passersby on the street below vainly seek shelter beneath newspapers and fragile umbrellas, dodging under awnings, leaping into taxis waiting to whisk them away to distant places where the rains of March are just a rumor.
She looks down at the black of her dress. In her mind she sees him in the casket looking as if he’d merely fallen asleep.
Her damp woolen coat lies on the bed, where sixty two years of her life were spent with him. Sixty two years of quarrels, of passion; sixty two years of love and jealous anger. Sixty two years of ties that bound them more securely than the mere vows of marriage two young people once took ever could.
Slightly ajar, the door of the closet reveals his clothes, suits and slacks hanging ready for the man who will never again wear them. The book he was reading rests on the nightstand by his pillow.
She stares out the window of her lonely room, watching the street below through the rivulets of water, blue and grey; washed away.
The sky weeps the tears that faded blue eyes refuse to shed.
Staggering as he lands hard on his feet, Edwin Farmer looks around himself in confusion. The moon hangs high over the horizon and in the distance, a campfire beckons. With his first steps toward that flickering light, Edwin begins the journey of a lifetime.
Forced to become a warrior and a mage, now he must transform himself into a hero. Edwin must journey to the one place he never wanted to be, fighting a desperate battle to rescue the woman he loves but has only met in his dreams.
The Gods are at war and the land of Neveyah is the battleground. Magic and destiny lie waiting in the Tower of Bones.
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1 comment:
I love the metaphor, rain for grief, for tears. Your language is pure poetry.
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