Solemn and faceless they bore her coffin in from the cold, listless morning. It was early, yet, and the chapel had not yet filled; but I knew that before long even the standing room would be crowded. The pallbearers paused with the strength of ritual, and placed the mahogany box like an altar at the front of the church. The rich wood gleamed brilliantly with the kiss of sacred candlelight. As well it should shine, as it would be a closed casket service. The air was stifling with the scent of flora. One could almost forget the somber occasion and imagine a lush and tropical paradise from all the blooms and plumes that littered the sides and front of the chapel. Some flowers I could pick out with names and scents, the easy ones like roses, glads, orchids, and marigolds; but it seemed like countless others, thousands, I just couldn't place. Plants with large and sexual flowers with ostentatious colors bordering on obscene, they played the backdrop for a Monday morning funeral.
By now the chapel was filled, and more people attempted to cram into the nooks and crannies. My first guess was a gross underestimate as even the standing room was obliterated by the hordes of those who come to mourn. The faces seemed always to change on those around me, facial expressions blurred and shifted like a twisted video montage, making it nearly impossible to focus on any particular person, though I imagined I saw those I knew and loved among them. Were we all struck by loss this day? As the novelty of the casket's arrival wore away the low rumble of conversation, alive like a beast, rose through the church. I found stilted and faltering words, unknown to me, passing through my lips, and from the mouths of all present. It seemed that the air itself was filled with the buzz of words, but with her death the words were merely sounds to fill the space. The words themselves were dead, and fluttered to the wooden floor like clumsy flies.
The owner of our words was wrapped in her shroud and lay in that simple dark box. And so, a chapel filled with a million spoke meaningless gibberish when we attempted to mourn and speak our greatest grief at losing our gift; our Muse. It seems ironic to me that the one moment when all wanted to cherish and remember the cause of letters loved, and stories told, when it was absolutely obligatory to paint our grief in the words she gave us, those words ran dry. I wept. No, I keened because the words I needed were gone. When I needed them the most, the fled and I babbled mercilessly with the throngs. Tears were on the undistinguishable faces, pouring out the words that should have been, the words that could not be. And we could only hope, could only pray that it was enough to honor the giver of life and passion in the life of our work. But even with our hope, the truth was on painted on our faces, we were devastated, and we knew no eloquence to convey it.
The clamor grew to a cacophony as frustrated mourners sobbed and wailed wordlessly. The ornate stained glass, shades of vermillion, azure and gold rattled in their windows as the din reached unhealthy decibels. I was searching my mind for beautiful words, a last ditch effort in denial, a need for something...something that could remain in memory of my beloved muse.
I spoke, and the room hushed. I spoke and millions beyond counting ceased their cries and their gnashing of teeth. Daunted by the deadening silence, I wavered, knowing all eyes focused on me. I could feel them like indeterminate points of light.
There is nothing I can say to heal this. I am broken now, as are you. With her death, we died as the words died on our lips. There is nothing we could say, if we could say anything to fill the hole in our minds and hearts that Her death digs in us. Even as I speak now, I bring no hope, no kind words to act as a salve on your ears. We are lost, now. Our pens are now alien and foreign creatures forever to sleep on dusty parchment. But while you mourn the corpse of our Creatress, I fear that the situation grows ever worsening for us. Our physical lives are far from over, and I regret that while we may live on, we shall be but husks as love letters, novels, poems, stories, tales: they will all be lost to us. Decades from now, when we think ourselves healed from this rift in our souls, have near forgotten this communion of the lost, you will itch. This itch will disturb you, but you'll have dislodged the memory of your beloved Muse and will not recall the need to create. Perhaps you'll attempt other means or creativity: painting, building, knitting; but activity will leave you unfulfilled. The itch will eventually pass, and you'll remain hollow.
I miss Her, to be quite frank. I yearn for Her gentle and persuasive power that would often flow through me, sometimes a soft and thick glow of clover honey, and other times a river of fire that burned me at all hours. I miss the nights I could not sleep for the words that made me tremble, that weakened me for all their strength. Her most tender whispers that stirred me from dreams, filled me with ideas, lifted me and gave me a presence among poets. Honestly, the best part of me is in that grave and solemn mahogany box and it takes all my strength not to throw my body down on that casket and writhe with grief. But even if my Muse is gone, my dignity is still painfully intact.
If I can offer you any condolences, and I sincerely doubt I can, but if I could it would be that so many of us, nearly all of us are losing the creator of our Talent. You are not alone, though lost. Starving in union, wordless, but never silent. I have no way to end this makeshift and blatantly misspoken eulogy of sorts on a happier note; but I can only remind you of what you had, the beauty, the power in your Words and the eloquence. Remembrance will keep the wounds fresh, I know this. But keeping the memory of the Muse, and her gifts to you with every word you ever wrote may keep some part of your bond with her alive.
I stopped as my words ran dry. The well of my last eloquence, though stark and unbeautiful was at last depleted. As I was standing while I spoke, I now sat; just another anonymous face in the sea of mourning.
KinkyScreams© 2003
