And that is all.
Evocative Tragedy with all its trappings of Woe.
Available in different shades, but usually layers upon layers, with rippling, cascading echoes of silken sadness … a precious garment. Irreplaceable. Irrevocable.
Luxurious in its indulgence, bitter in its taste. Pointless in its extraction of silent emotion.
It creeps upon us stealthily, quietly, implicitly.
With no known reason, no necessary explanation why, no default Blame to lay.
But oh, how Sadness and Tragedy leave us quaking in their wake. Buffeted by their inimitable Storm. Shaken and broken, with no knowledge now of Time or routine, of rhyme or reason, of will or Hope.
Its shades, deep hues of blues and greens, muddy waters of brown and grey, bland expanses of Magnolia.
Odd that. They repainted her room in full Magnolia.
They created his tiny feet from cream clay. Feet that will never learn to walk…or wrap their tiny toes around their sleepless parents, hook those tiny fingers into loving hands.
In its wake.