On the Morning of my Passing
On the morning of my passing, they lifted me from my slumberous bed and laid me down upon the scarred surface once built by my grandfather’s own hands for the kitchen-work. There they washed and dressed my hair with ribbons and flowers and braids and wires of fine-spun gold, and wrapped my flesh in the finery reserved long ago for my grave. I laid there, watching, their gentle hands soft and warm while their eyes silvered with the sheen of tears. A blanket of fresh roses was brought in and laid across me as the sun began to sink beyond the horizon, and the townsfolk began to arrive for the vigil, but I lost interest then, and stared out the window to the field of stars until I could hear those sweet lights calling to me in voices brighter than those I would leave behind, and I took flight to join them there in those heavenly skies.
With thanks to D Gestalt for the excellent prompt.
