“Will there ever come a time when you shall forgive yourself for father’s passing?” questions Antoine.
“You would not understand a bruised woman like me, even if you are my son. There will not be anything that could save my spirit, and how it renders torment like another child. There is only the safety of such torment. It has become my bliss,” says Josephine, showing her voice to be alike to this season of winter.
“It is not to be your bliss, mother!” says Antoine.
“My son, your repetition is endearing. But you must be tired, so please retire to your room, and allow me to share a tear to myself.” Josephine casts a cold stare over to Antoine’s eyes, as it then travels beneath, to his nose. Her stare continues downwards to stop at his chin, where there is a mark there, identified as a scar. She offers a smile after the stare is withdrawn.
She says to him, “That scar is a leftover from when you used to grieve.”
“Mother, I am young. I do not need to grieve, forever,” says Antoine.
“And I am old, so I must grieve, forever. Now, leave me.”
He departs, once more.
And so, we have spoken on three departures. Antoine had committed himself to two, and a spirit from a man named as both a husband and father, departed from its body.
Sorrow is the clinging emotion, same as love. It is because sorrow is the aftereffects to a tragedy. Though, love will forever cling to life, enough so that we understand the peace that comes with death. And what creates eternity in love? It is the memory that creates eternity in love. Beauty is the flesh to which we do not yearn to see vanish. It is because death is the thing that will reflect hopelessness, and of the body to which death has touched by its cold, black hand, there is decay. The decay that comes as black and descends into the snowy ashes. How whiteness is the blank page! How blackness is the filled page! In seeing beauty vanish, we see black, then we see white.
For love is the shield to beauty, the shield to flesh, the shield to recognition, and the shield to protect from death. It is only through love that anyone will recognize the terrors of death, know also the oncoming throes of death, though wouldn’t be as paranoid as to never allow freedom.