Wendy Ashlee Coleman
Copyright Wendy Ashlee Coleman 2011
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Cover art by Bethney Cole
His body lies there alone. I’m so close; I can see my own reflection in the tiny, polished coffin. He looks as soulless as an empty wax statue. I am weakened by despair yet it takes three stout men, grasping onto me with snow white, pale knuckles to keep me from scooping him up in my arms in a desperate attempt to meet his face with mine, to soak up his warmth one last time. But they know the truth and deep down, so do I. My little boy is gone. Underneath all the life-like make up is death - a once warm face now only a chilly room temperature.
I fall to ground in a nauseas heap. The painful feeling of my kneecaps slamming into the painted, concrete floor gives me a pleasant but momentary distraction from the agonizing feeling of my very spirit ripped from my body. As I vomit, I feel the warm hands of loved one’s hold my head up, so I don’t get it on my suit. The light pink, reddish remains of my obliterated and liquefied soul falls from my mouth and splatters against the ground. My head spins as I look up from all fours and see a crucifix through waterlogged eyes. I summon all my strength and push up off the floor with my injured knees and lunge towards that large lower case “t” in an attempt to rip it off the wall.