with the last pile of soil on the now hidden casket
July 17, 2009
the boy thought about the Stranger’s life:
how It would wake up every day before sun rose to greet the World;
how It would sing on the top of Its heart for the World to hear;
how It would kiss the World goodnight before It dozed off, only to do the same the following day.
staring at the tombstone amidst the drizzle, the boy then thought about the times he and the Stranger had spent together:
how they held hands walking down the beach (and watching the sun cry after);
how they talked about the idiosyncrasies of the World until they fell asleep (the Stranger would usually doze off first);
how they bit off branches, twigs and leaves just to get to the lake amidst the dense, unforgiving forest (and the cuts and bruises that followed);
how they swam to the deepest parts of the ocean and spent countless nights there (and returning home with the chills after);
how they had countlessly professed their love for one another on top of the mountain (they had to scream on top of their lungs to be audible).
a large drop of rain (the size of a bowling ball) fell on the boy’s head and brought him back to the World.
it began pouring like there was no tomorrow.
if only It still had breath.
thunder and lightning ensued.
if only they were all real.
the rain drowned the tombstone, which quickly faded away.
if only It still had breath and they were all real.
soon the World was enveloped with rainwater, and the boy knew it was too late.
if only.
