dalena | 25 | counting fancies
a dancer with mosaic
working at the learning lab
4th feb 1986
clearing out her wardrobe
eric & serene
desktop tower defence
go fug yourself
oh no they didn't
pink is the new blog
the butterfly tales
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
One last goodbye.
One last look at her greying face.
One last joss-stick offered.
One last bow to her.
The coffin rolled out on the automated transporter, making its final journey towards the incinerator. The door opened, the fire flared a fierce orange within, burning with a hunger too ferocious to ever satiate. Slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, one push by the machine, and it's in. The door shut.
("Wake up! Your ah-ma's hospitalised, the doctor says she cannot live past today.")
Teardrops rolled down the pale, withdrawn faces in the viewing gallery. Save for the occasional sniffle and the rustling of tissue packets, all was tense and silent. A muffled sob broke free from a girl, then another, and another, and another.
("Are you the relatives of the patient in bed 47? She's dying.")
She shook her head, trying to stop her tears, but nothing would dam the flow. Four days had passed so quickly yet so slowly, she couldn't really decide which it was. All that filled her head was her selfish grief, and the image of her grandfather crying and crying and crying and...
("She's not going to make it.")
The cremation's done and over with. Now all that's left are memories, unreliable memories that are so clear, so vivid at the beginning - but gradually start growing fuzzy about the edges as Time lopes ahead of everyone and playfully smudges images into swirly, blurry colours.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.