The Widow and her soul were divided by the ocean. Her Love was on an ocean, and was a little river in itself. The sea was choppy, the wind bleak, her lips…perhaps calm, perhaps lifeless. She was dead, and her body unembodied itself, and subsequently she unraveled like wool, to the great delight of the milk-like cats, who were skinny and frail; wispy, smoke-like, barely-there and starved of cream.
She waited, carrying an urn. Her memories carried her, in turn. All the while, her Husband – who was at once a Ghost, a mortal, and a watch in her hand – stared at her with a bemused smile, from a distance.
The same bemused stare was on the expressions of seagulls. She was too preocupied with her mortal thoughts to check the watch, which is a great pity, for it had declared:
“I love you, silly. Get back to work.”
If she wondered for a moment if it was all a dream, it probably was not, for it was something that occurred.
There was nothing to do afterwards, so she did something with pebbles, and waited for further instructions that she could not possibly hear.
The moral of this story is:
“…between the tickings of a watch, and a smile on a bird.”
Every bedtime story is accompanied by pictures:
And every good story must perhaps find its end.