WE WILL GET ETCHED INTO FOLKLORE OVER OUR DEATH.
Death will come as disease. Death might come as a whisper. Death will come in a dream. It will come singing; not in the destructive way imagined. But scrawling slowly in a lullaby. It will manifest itself in boredom. Forbidding of leisure. It will be in detention.There will be no grand ending. Defeated sighs will end the whole thing. Pitiful murmurs, barely audible.There will be no beautiful epilogue. None that you would remember anyway.
Bobby the bird came to visit Ronnie the rat. A monthly ritual. Pip the squirrel had a twin brother, Sleuthy the Squirrel. Sleuthy would slyly steal the nectar from the hibiscus flowers in the garden. Before a single flower could grow, he would swiftly slurp up all the sweet nectar. But he would have none of it for himself. It was to be saved for Bobby’s monthly visits. The threesome would feast on a great meal of stolen nectar once a month. Bobby would break into stories about the sky.
“The sky was temporary. The sky was free. It never remained still. It flowed like water. But you could never feel it. It could not be grasped. It was the great unknown. It was the changing of colors. It was the moving of winds. The shining of stars. Showing that which could never be seen. Forming that which was only known and felt, and yet did not seem to exist.”
“Have you been hearing the night voices too?” Bobby asked his friends. “ I can’t sleep at night for the noises become so loud.”
“Yes, yes!” they replied.
“It gets louder and louder, then begins to sound like tiny voices.” Sluethy added.
All were confused by the events of late, as they continued to share stories, all were curious.
There and then, the three friends agreed to set out on an adventure that very night…