Barely under the shallow waters, she remained and surveyed the hillsides on the outer reaches, among the cool breezes, under a mild sun. Young girl noticed the circulation was on, undulations fluttered passed her, making light hills and valleys on the surface. She lowered her sight, thinking then of the texture of the bright blue pavement at her feet. All her range of feeling tuned to some mild volume, Girl remembered the pale afternoon shine, just a moment before a dark ingredient mixed with it, filling the light ripples with grayness. Girl’s eyes, still upon the area of her feet, observed the light blue pavement under the shallow pool reshuffle, quietly as the waters, into the pavement approaching the Funeral House.
Girl stood in the shadow of its front roofing, between the columns. Not far in the direction of her shoulder, the grasses weaving in and out of the burial stones rose and fell, faintly. She extended her gaze out this way, and the gloom overhang of the House gave the sign it was following, an inky wavering puff sheltering her eyes
“you know I haven’t forgotten,” she worded in exhale.
“you can rest for now, just in that, however far I must walk to find it, your resting is in my grasp….I must only bring it back here, where you wanted, Dad…back where I lay me down—“
The dark blot simmered no longer. The crisp afternoon burned through, the touch of the shallow water tickled her again. She surveyed the hillsides on the outer reaches, among the cool breezes, under a mild sun
We plot the scenes, we arrange the sets, we design the costumes, the characters’ faces, the tools for the audio bytes, we stand before the prototype display standing for your environments, setting the furnishings of your history in place for the rehearsal of the animation of your life’s journey, and I the director of the feature, look down into my palm where you yourself in miniature replica sits amid my fingers, all the vista of eventuality fans out like its own horizon from the level of your shoulders, daylight and moon’s shine turn like a table of time’s cycle, all in the containment of your look