𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐢. hello, death, are you there?

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

"Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held but just ourselves — and immortality."

            The church was mute, somber light shining through the stained glass, painting the walls and participants with a variety of dim reds, blues, and yellows. Hands were pressed frozen against mouths, stifling their sobs, clinging to the words bouncing off the walls, a silent I love you, clinging to the crevices of their minds.

"We slowly drove — he knew no haste. And I had to put away my labour and my leisure too, for his civility."

             Her fingers were lightly shaking, moving her hand to tightly grasp the paper, temporarily stilling her movements; her voice firm and heavy as she stands at the podium, silently praying for the pounding in her chest to calm, if even for a mere second, to delude the image of serenity.

"We passed the school where children strove at recess — in the ring. We passed the fields of gazing grain. We passed the setting sun."

            Sniffs rung through the air, the ruffles of fabric rubbing together as guests lifted their handkerchiefs, wiping away evidence of their pain, of their failures; a steady stream of salted tears, pink hues covering cheeks and noses like a breeze of chilled wind, the constant hum of everything they did wrong.

"Or rather, he passed us. The dews drew quivering and chill, for only Gossamer, my gown. My Tippet — only Tulle."

            She slightly shifted her gaze, sharp blue and pale hazel colliding in a silent war, curly blonde hair sits in her peripherals, shooting fury through her veins; in her mind she silently wills for the blonde in the front row to replace the man in the casket.

"We paused before a house that seemed a swelling of the ground. The roof was scarcely visible — the Cornice, in the ground."

            The blonde woman adjusted straight in her seat, narrowing her eyes, furious with the lone blonde ringlet dangling in young girls face, a single imperfection that would not go unpunished; the casket sits in her peripherals, a constant thought floating in her mind, praying the young blonde would replace the man in the casket.

"Since then, 'tis centuries, and yet, feels shorter than the day — I first surmised the Horses' Heads were eternity."

            The young girl brought her gaze forward, clearing her throat, blonde ringlets falling gracefully back into place, setting the image of importance, "Because I could not stop Death, Emily Dickinson." She says, taking a step away from the podium.