In the Necropolis

It was a desperate attempt to save the dead from time. The living creating tombs to house those who have passed on - - futile intentions put to temporal tests. There are a dozen scents for me to choose from. Memories of sweet dew and late Saturday mornings. Of juniper calling forth school. Of tears shed at 3 a.m. out of nothing. A dozen memories for me to relive. A quarter of a day is no longer as slow as it used to be. The dawn is my time alone. Before the sun wakes up to recharge the world and get it going. I am woman. My scars are not of charred battle wounds but of sharpened emotional debates. My laundry kept swimming in soap for 3 days. Miracles are mistaken for magic. "If only there was a way to die and resurrect two days later," said Mark. But there was none, so we die in our minds over and over until the bodies tire and live out the mind's dream.