09-02-2020, 11:15 AM
As far as she may wish to put it off, she couldn't. The boat had been crafted from scratch, as carefully as they could, flowers and herbs stuffed all around, covering all but the doberman's face, hiding the scent of death with lavender. But she didn't want to smell lavender, nor any fancy calming scents. They were not calming. They only made the feeling even stronger.
She'd tasked herself with painting the sail, an effort she restarted several times over. What exactly she was to paint, she was unsure for a while. There were many different ideas she cycled through - life stories, flowers, foods, those she'd known - but as she got into each, she felt as if she could do none proper justice. No matter how stories she shared, how many times they'd cooked together, what plants she could possibly choose, how much her friends and family were depicted, all felt flat to her. Her painting skills were not so grand, simplistic and impressionistic, and her lover deserved better. Most of all, she found herself unable to proceed, the literal images in her face causing her static to start up once more, removing any peace that may be found in the act of painting. And the thorns struck her again and again.
And ultimately, she decides to try something entirely different altogether.
On one sail, the starry night sky above a forest clearing is depicted, at the bottom of which was the white silhouette of a deer, antlers piercing through the dark. And the other, in the bright, clear morning sky was a golden bird above the salty sea, shining at the top of the painting. They both had light rays coming from one another's presence, pointed towards each other, though still separate. The sun and the moon.
And the event set up itself was small, there was no platform for speaking, a few tables for food and drinks, and some towels to rest on. That in itself was a miracle, to have anything at all, from the grieving tigress. Her eyes are tired, gaze somewhere else, and she sits quietly by the shore, not looking at Sam's body. The boat rests quietly in the shallow waters, sail resting downward, small carriage docked for the time being. And the widowed captain very clearly did not want to be here.
But there would be speeches of life and death, and it was her duty, both to Sam, and to their children, to host this event. She'd promised she would.
Funerals were supposed to help the grieving let go, let them move on. But she wasn't ready to do that yet. She didn't want to let go.
"M' wife is dead, and everything is worse." She would state quietly, just loud enough that if someone was a few feet away they'd hear. It was not the beginning to any speech she'd prepared. She'd not prepared a speech at all. She couldn't.
She'd tasked herself with painting the sail, an effort she restarted several times over. What exactly she was to paint, she was unsure for a while. There were many different ideas she cycled through - life stories, flowers, foods, those she'd known - but as she got into each, she felt as if she could do none proper justice. No matter how stories she shared, how many times they'd cooked together, what plants she could possibly choose, how much her friends and family were depicted, all felt flat to her. Her painting skills were not so grand, simplistic and impressionistic, and her lover deserved better. Most of all, she found herself unable to proceed, the literal images in her face causing her static to start up once more, removing any peace that may be found in the act of painting. And the thorns struck her again and again.
And ultimately, she decides to try something entirely different altogether.
On one sail, the starry night sky above a forest clearing is depicted, at the bottom of which was the white silhouette of a deer, antlers piercing through the dark. And the other, in the bright, clear morning sky was a golden bird above the salty sea, shining at the top of the painting. They both had light rays coming from one another's presence, pointed towards each other, though still separate. The sun and the moon.
And the event set up itself was small, there was no platform for speaking, a few tables for food and drinks, and some towels to rest on. That in itself was a miracle, to have anything at all, from the grieving tigress. Her eyes are tired, gaze somewhere else, and she sits quietly by the shore, not looking at Sam's body. The boat rests quietly in the shallow waters, sail resting downward, small carriage docked for the time being. And the widowed captain very clearly did not want to be here.
But there would be speeches of life and death, and it was her duty, both to Sam, and to their children, to host this event. She'd promised she would.
Funerals were supposed to help the grieving let go, let them move on. But she wasn't ready to do that yet. She didn't want to let go.
"M' wife is dead, and everything is worse." She would state quietly, just loud enough that if someone was a few feet away they'd hear. It was not the beginning to any speech she'd prepared. She'd not prepared a speech at all. She couldn't.