Often did she dress herself in black, but rarely was it ever for MOURNING. Now, between a lazy Saturday afternoon and the impending Sunday morning looming just around the bends of the darkening horizon, an exception revealed itself. The two knelt in the grass before a shallow grave, shaded both by the branches of the nearby oak and by the innate heaviness that clung to the air and followed behind each breath they took. In that grave, now covered with cool, upturned earth, a black-feathered body had been put to rest.   ( MEMENTO MORI )    “ You can, ” the woman encouraged, voice soft as ever, insisting gently upon an understanding.  “ You brought those flowers for a reason, yes ? ”   A small nod was given to the bundle of white petals in the girl’s arms. Pristine, painstakingly chosen and picked, an offering to the dead and a promise of remembrance. Vivienne’s expression stayed steady, but her eyes found the other’s with a precise carefulness, as though deciding what to say and where to tread. Lessons in DEATH were never short and sweet, always akin to a dull blade scraped along the heart – there was no empathy for the living.   Face turned away, gaze falling back towards the ground like it was weighted. Slender fingers brushed the edges of the small wooden cross that had been hastily put together as a makeshift marker. This was hardly an event of grand notice, unimportant to most and strange to any others.  “ In this life, you’ll have to BURY many things, ” she spoke with a certainty that neither imposed nor demanded, like a mother instructing a child.  “ It isn’t always easy, and it isn’t always FAIR. ”     IT WASN’T ALWAYS HOLY !    “ But when it happens, ” ( AND IT WILL ) “ don’t let anyone ever tell you that you aren’t allowed to hurt. That you cannot be ANGRY. Your pain is all your own. ” Reaching out, she took a single flower from the bunch, particular not to break the stem. Hands worked to nimbly tie it to one arm of the cross, demonstrating a simple knot as she continued, “ You can’t always make GRIEF beautiful. ” Another flower was added, then one more. The gnarled, splintered wood of the grave marker began to be obscured by petals.  “ But there’s ways to lessen it. Little by little. ”   Above them branches creaked and leaves rustled. A multitude of dark eyes stared down, glossy like buttons, all unwavering and sharply watching. They came when they were called, they always did. Three crows perched  ; three for a FUNERAL.  “ You see ? You can always find company at a graveside, if you look close enough. ”
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