Day 136

A man sits before a grave, freshly dug.
He knows not of the body buried below.
He did know a woman though, filled with life.
She enjoyed dancing. She said it was the most impossible thing one could do, because it requires you to keep time and yet you lose track of it when you do it.
Deliriously paradoxical, she would describe it. Which was also a fitting description of her.
Deliriously paradoxical. This woman who loved going to bed, but loved to sleep in. Who loved to laugh, yet would consume tragic stories with earnest.
She would pour out love and praise as a faucet, yet couldn't stand to receive a single compliment.
A warrior without violent impulse.
An adventurer without mission.
A living saint.
This woman, the man had known in life. But she was gone now.
In her place: a stone slab, name etched upon the surface.
The last time she'd bid him farewell, he said he would think of her when soever he should dance.
She instructed him to dance more often, then.
A sweet sentiment at the time.
Now: he could not think of a world with music worth hearing.
Not with her unable to hear it . . .
Yet, with letter in hand, written by that woman, he is called upon to fulfill final set of tasks.
One such task is to enjoy himself while doing the others. Not to forget her - mind. That would be a rudeness, unbecoming of the man. He did smile at that bit.
No. Just look forward to a day when she is simply in another room, while he is in one too.
The paths diverge, but their having met can never be undone.
So journey onward. Envision a day when he should smile upon thinking of her and be not saddened so much by her absence.
The man eventually stands up, his instructions neatly folded and pocketed, before wiping the dirt from his pants.
He looks a last time upon the stone slab, then turns to leave.