Ice Cold Mourning

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I’ve been staring for hours at the lifeless woman in the chilled, transparent casket, dangling from the roof of my barn. She fared quite well in that boisterous southern tornado. Her red dress was torn to mere ragged shreds but I believe she would be satisfied with the rose-colored dress I chose for her to wear on that dainty body. Even in death, her body still seams to gleam and motionlessly gyrate to some unspoken energy. It always drove me wild with desire. A desire to kiss her, to hold her, to speak to her. I still feel an untamed desire inundated even the most minuscule parts of my dreary soul. The desire to go mad. The desire to scream at the top of my lungs in an agony that would have reverberated off nearly every wall, every ear, every listening soul in this quaint town. I would have gone anywhere with her — even if my soul had to part too.

Since her death last Sunday, her iced body has been the only comfort to me. For hours I would imagine her dancing around and kissing the air with the breakneck pace of her thoughts. I would contemplate holding her hand, but I would always let the fear of disturbing the peace of her still state halt my actions.

While still staring at the stiff body in front of me, I call my farmboy. He comes rushing in with his dainty hand pressing his flimsy hat to his odd-shaped head. I point to my wife’s body. “Take her down tonight. I have a feeling this will be second night that just won’t treat her right. Let us not have a third.”

And with that, I bury my dear Isabella, with her boundless energy and all. My imagination cannot penetrate the ground to bring her back to life. I lay the most elegant rose can find on her grave site. The only rose I could find with the petals slightly bent in bloom and the deepest, most mesmerizing red painted onto the flower by Nature’s delicate, but firm hand. The only type of rose someone like her deserved.


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