A ten minute exercise at the writing group on the subject of Finishing Touches.
She looked peaceful, if a little unreal; the lines etched by years of worry, pain and disappointment, had melted away. Whether it was just the relaxation of the facial muscles, or the artfulness of the embalmer, Tommy couldn’t say but it just didn’t look like her.
He just stood looking, wanting to touch her hand, kiss her goodbye once more, but afraid of the cold feeling and the possibility that his lips might taste something.
The chapel of rest was, of course, quiet. Not as the grave, but that silence which defied you to breathe in case it were overheard.
Of all the things he wanted to say, he had forgotten to say “I love you”. It was understood between them, at least he had thought so. But now he thought perhaps he hadn’t said it as often as he might have, so he just mumbled, placed a small flower across her chest, turned and walked away.
30 May 2014