My hand is on the oblong flatness of white marble where you sleep. Your death sleep. Your soul’s rest. And I expect the marble to be cold, but it’s not. It’s warm. Though not by the low November sun, perhaps it’s your eternal warmth.
I think heaven opened its door when it saw you coming. Complicated you. Unique you. Just like this white marble with its willow-green flickers, little purple jerks, and long blue waves. Even white is complex with twists and tremors.
I say a prayer, ask that you forgive my stupidity and mistakes. It’s more like a conversation than a prayer, and when it is over, said and done, it was a time. And there was never enough of it. A lifetime is so little time.
And I pull my umbrella close as a broad smear of rain washes across your name.
For dVerse prosery. Max 144 word. I used 144. Use the phrase from Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, “A Time” (and when it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it). © Misky 2020 The image is from Unsplash. CC:00