Willow

They laid her in the tall willowy grass. Off yellow in color, the grass and her hair. She had a smile on her face, peaceful and forgiving, as if all that had come to ruin was just then gelled back together. Broken hearts, shattered minds, itching psyches all restored, returned, realigned. People remember her sitting at a table staring out over a thousand puzzle pieces, a cup of tea always in reach, Patsy Cline in the background bringing sour and sweet together. ‘We are all angels before we die’ she used to say, as if she had been there and seen it already. As if she knew what she would be like the instant before she slipped away. It was all hearsay and gossip now. Her voice was merely the wind, blowing the blades from side to side as if communicating to us in some form of silent gesture. What can be taken from this day, so silent and still. Nothing can be taken, just as nothing can be given. It all is, as is and isn’t. She was here and now she is gone and yet she was never here and will someday be back. Heads bowed, in a circle, everyone was silent. Only the smoke rising from a man’s cigarette circled and motioned upward as if to say a final goodbye.