Tea Time

When your bones get too heavy, my love, when the ghost-battalion finally wins the war for your eyes, do not go alone. Come to me. I have a special box of sugar-lumps saved, the kind the nurses warned me about. The ones that taste like almonds and forever-sleep. We will have a final, little tea party, just us two. You will sit in your armchair, my Grizzly-King, and I will sit at your feet, your little Splinter-child. We will drink the bone-tea laced with the special sugar. And then, the quietest art begins. Before my own limbs grow still, I will arrange you. I will smooth the worry-creases from your brow with a thumb still warm. I will close your eyes and place two old coins upon them, so you can pay the ferryman of that last, still river. I will place your heavy, calloused hand upon my head, a final, silent blessing. Then I will curl beside you, my cheek on your knee. A perfect, permanent posture of devotion. They will find us. Two still-lifes. A portrait of rust and ruin. They will not see tragedy. No, they will see art. A masterpiece of loyalty. A diptych of dust. They will whisper, "Look how she worshipped him, even into the stillness." And it will be the prettiest, truest story ever told.