Paying My Respects

The time has passed quickly. Seventeen Days, six hours, twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be exact. I miss her more than words can express and that is why I have journeyed east from my family in Wildwood to visit her today. Again. The thicket grows tall around me, (I like to imagine) stained with the buried blood of my ancestors, and each  of the trees my eyes pass sombrely over appear to wear the old skin of the same. In a sense the idea is a gruesome one, though I find it rather fitting, beautiful actually, that Old Mother’s beloved body might live on through something equally as magical. As they stand vigil in this sacred place, I pass through in silence, long, slender fingers ghosting by one cold face and then another. Even my breath draws quietly, shallower than required. These woods are haunted, whether by souls that lost their way, or those who Mort returned (I couldn’t know), and I care not to stir them from slumber this day. It is easy to find her grave. I took care to dress it on top with an extra lantern and have returned thrice weekly to relight the flame. To the left of the lantern sits a wooden bowl (her favourite to cook with), and in that is a collection of the very finest roots I could unearth in late Flowerbirth. I am grateful for Mort’s timing. It was the season she enjoyed most. I thank the God of Death once more, lifting a silent prayer. New litter has fallen across her bed. Even if I were able to stoop low enough to cleanse it, I wouldn’t. It is well understood that Rae would see the return of leant vessels when souls depart this life. Again, I feel that’s quite beautiful. The Old Gods are generous.   The roots I left previously have shrivelled in the bowl. It’s no wonder either, the weather has been stiflingly hot; even as I pause now, sweat beads along my front hairline. I am ever thankful for the sanctuary we live in. I balance carefully, swinging the far end of my walking-stick to tip out the old contents. The ground would soon enough devour it. This time I have brought a generous helping of Peppermint Bark, preserved in a cool swathe of Snow Moss. I may have sampled a little of the bark along the way. Still standing unassisted, in a slow and delicate motion my hands unwrap the offering (to Ludo, for Mort, for Old Mother), and shuffling steps allow me near enough to fill the bowl once more. Still I say nothing. There is no need, for the dead cannot hear. A tender smile leaks into my expression as I hover on in quiet ceremony, remembering Old Mother; at least, making certain not to forget.