They’re saying “thank you.” You might not be able to hear them, but their voices are low, some stuck in the swallow of tears, some interrupted by the kindness of laughter you gifted them; maintaining your memory like stained glass in a grand cathedral of their memory. Cherished. Adored. Caught in the sun. Spilling color across their internal bodies, their unseen aspects, which lay curled as if in the womb and beg to stretch and accept, with only joy able to flood their clutching limbs into release. You opened them. The mania of your energy, the high mountain climb of your feverish staccato, the relentlessness of your wit that fell onto the willing like starlight does on the night of a new moon. The churning pull of their bellies when a frown creased your face as if it were a mask cast from the purest care; it didn’t matter what you wanted them to feel, they felt it. They looked up at you and your divinity was apparent, your flight above them an Icarus trip to the sun shrouding each upturned face with the gentle ash of your undoing. They will not wash, but will let the film of your gift sit upon their faces so that they might – at cold times of weariness – shake with laughter, or so they can – when the sky is warm with love – remember thankfulness with a heart-sprung tear. To say you’ll be missed, kind bird, is a whisper in a canyon, at once understatement and an expression that reverberates not by loudness, but by volume as it careens off equally touched souls whispering their own eulogies. May there be a way for you still to hear them in your rest, and may their soft assurances, praise and thanks help bring you peace.
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