The fog now completely obscured
her shape and the wind muffled the sounds of her existence. I watched helplessly
as she slowly disappeared, and I waited. For many years.
As sudden as her dissolution was slow, her singing voice cut through the thick air, and the haze lifted. Bright as the sun that illuminated this transformation, was her face—eyes like stars, skin like a mirror, a smile that embraced the world.
She was free once more, and I
could die. I no longer had to hold the fort for her.
As she stepped into the body in which I kept vigil, the things to which I had become accustomed were suddenly irksome. The skin turned to hide, the leaden chest and ashen head, the empty coffers of the imagination, the exhausted timbre of every thought… the boredom, the bitterness. Unbearable above all, were the shrouds of silence that envelop the spirit.
The voice that drops lower and
lower, fading softly.
As she steps into this body again, she caresses it, with bare and then lotioned hands. She disentangles the matted hair that marks both mourning and renunciation. Her glance repossesses the world, and her mind prepares a fresh inventory of dreams and desires. She raises her head. She lifts her voice. She sings.
And with her song, the fire destroys
every last vestige of me, releasing me from my vigil over her life.