In the car headed towards the cemetery, she saw:
Passing a stretch of short, stumpy trees, a common sight, lush and green with sharp thin leaves, she noticed a larger tree, looking out of place in the midst of green. It was tall and straight, its weather white wood trunk stark and bare against the spindly dark, damp wood of the other trees. The bare branches spread out like roots... like spider webs, right in the centre of the tiny forest.
A bare, dead tree sticking out of the middle of a short forest, with a black bird perched atop one of the gnarled branches.
Two tombstones, merged together, side by side, at the corner of a road.
Lovers even after death?
She heard:
Sitting in the car, voices were thrown back and forth. She tried to tune out as much as possible, trying to squeeze away from the voices. But they were loud and insistent, repeating the same words over and over. Loud, piercing tones. She wished the bubble was here. Shutupshutupshutupstoptalkingdammitjustshutupwhywon'tyoustoptalkingshutupppppjustSHUTUP!
A child's voice insisting she saw the dragon.
At the cemetery, she saw:
Burning the offerings for the dead, she sat on the corner of a tombstone, transfixed at the fire. She had murmured a silent apology to the tombstone she was leaning on, but she still felt wrong. Staring as the fire engulfed the box of old tradition, she was amazed at the white smoke that poured out. It flickered and flailed like outstretched fingers, trying to escape from the heat of the flames. It poured out in thick, white plumes, like a bubbling smokefall. It was beautiful.
She didn't believe in the old traditions. She clasped her hands and stared at the tombstone, staring at the pictures embedded in them. Black and white, solemn expressions stared back. She didn't know what to say, or do. She didn't believe.
A dragonfly fluttering weakly near her legs. At first, she thought it was some magnificient, beautiful species of the dragonfly because the wings were so vibrant. And then she realized it was because it was barely flapping its wings and that was why it was so low to the ground, near her legs. It was dying.
On the way back home, she saw:
The clouds were thick and white, so substansial that she felt as if she could claw out a piece and hold it in her hands. It was thicker than the smoke. She saw islands, vast floating islands, with mist of clouds floating around the border. She remembered that as a child, she would look out the windows, wishing she were atop the clouds, dancing lightly from cloud to cloud, of course watching out for the thinned wisps of clouds, because they were too light to hold her.
Everything was unfamiliar. The grass, the clouds, the buildings, the people. She didn't know it, she didn't like it. She didn't want to be here. She shut her eyes to avoid the harsh glare of the sun. When she opened them, she recognized the scenery outside. She was home again.
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