Opposite of Infinite

- epilogue -

Epilogue

the man was old and greying,

hair that was once as black as the night

now turned to a watery, silver morning

that held promises of storms

and light showers.

the skin around his face had become too large a structure

for his lack of expression,

sagging in place

like sand dunes that rose and fell

with every shift of breath

that left his lips.

his eyes were covered with glass,

metal wires crawling out of them

and curling around his ears

like tree branches 

that had forgotten how to grow.

he was uncomfortable on the hard wood of the bench,

feeling the cold creep into the church

and tiptoe around the room in such silence

that he almost forgot to listen

to the words being spoken.

or to see the paintings upheld

at the front of the room

by her husband,

who staggered up the steps

past a painting

that was not of him.

the man sitting on the bench studied him

with the sort of measured glance

that spoke of judgement and dubiousness.

his mind may have been old and fraying

like the ripped edges of a thin canvas

but he had known this woman.

had known every little colour that decorated her palette.

he knew she only deserved the best

of what the world had to offer.

and, if that wasn't him,

he was happy to see that she had at least found it

in the arms of someone else.

it had been her daughter who had reached out to him.

she had heard the stories

and seen the worn-out love

embedded in her mother's tales.

she had seen the familiarity

whenever they had spoken

and decided that, yes,

her mother

would have wanted him there.

and, as she watched him 

take off the camera from around his neck

and place it besides the coffin,

she knew she had made the right decision.