The Progression

17 Jan


Sharp persistent rays futilely scraped against the slats of her sealed blinds, forcing nomadic specks of dust to reveal one of their more favored hiding places, while the incessant ticking of the miniature mahogany clock, a gift given by her sister, steadily marked the continuous transition of all that surrounded it. Staring unknowingly beyond them into some distant place, her youthful heart skipped over the pungent aroma of the first flattering bouquet of roses, the smooth caress of his skin as he slid the golden sparkle on her finger, his deep, resonant laughter singing in her ears after she made the same witty remark for a second time, and the errant gray strand falling back down underneath her finger, to be hidden once again by its darker neighbors. Outside of her window, the gleeful cries of children joined the whooshing buzz of engines as they signaled their arrival and departure, and the mouth-watering sizzle of grilling meats slipped in a poignant spicy flavor, leaving her own mouth to remain stale and empty. While the sun continued to grow weary, their dull hum developed into murmurs of condolence, the shadows of whispering branches became still, resting their buds upon the stark white of his casket in a comforting heady blanket, and his countenance remained staid and silent, nothing like the way it was in life. She reached out and falteringly stroked the unyielding rod, finally wrapping her fingers around it and giving it a small turn. The sun’s rays slanted in, shedding their glow upon the ornate silver-framed picture on her desk, and she picked it up to lovingly run a hand over the glinting flowery casing, a warm, solitary tear likewise running down the length of her cheek. If she were to set this down, her grief choked up, would it become lost? The strands of light gradually released their grip and slid unresponsively over the side of her desk.


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