[Editor’s note: this is fiction.]
The sky is the color of steel, the cold gray of the coffin. She would have loved it. The sun of the south was too violent, and the Pacific Northwest cloudy weather matched her soul. She would have loved attending her own funeral. A light drizzle came and went right in the middle. The flowers fell on damp earth. None of us brought umbrellas, she would think it’s sacrilegious. We cried and mourned. I left early.
I went to the south, down to my pier, got in my boat and set off. It was early afternoon. The sky grew cloudier and darker by the minute, the wind sang louder.
It was cold, the drizzle a persistent beat on every surface of the world, but the sea was calm, and I pushed out into the sound.Continue reading