I lie in fresh shade from tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat, its sway quickened by the afternoon breeze, and inhale the tilled pasture that beds me and spreads between my fingers and toes. Above me, a lark weaves dollops of clouds into a searing blue sky and I rest until the distance brings the ring of my mothers cry, channeling me from my demise. Oh let me rest, let me wallow in this nest, but her call is heavy and though my eyes are shut I can see she sits in disbelief, cradled over my open urn. With heavy tears that spew from her cheek into my ash, she picks a chard of bone from my remains, and places it on her tongue. She swallows hard and cries, “I need a piece of him inside.” She will not let me rest, will not let me wallow in this nest and so, I move, ever so softly, into the light.
Green Monkey Tales © 2007 Shannon E. Kennedy