Bare tree branches gently sway in a gray sky that welcomes the cold sun. The morning mist hangs heavy; a dream fog that envelops each person in the small crowd there in a film of blur that leaves them feeling a little more alone.
They stand around the casket, watching as it is slowly lowered into the ground, saying their final goodbyes to the shell that once held the soul they still love. Hands in pockets, gripping tissues, wiping eyes and then noses. Welcome to the funeral.
The wheat-salmon smudge of sunrise is filling the horizon, reaching the thousand-clawed silhouette of the sallow tree and stretching its shadows.
We lost something, that much everyone agrees. Something special. What everyone thinks they’ve lost is you.
But I think you already know: real has different dimensions. It is always changing.