by Ayami Tyndall
Published by Ayami Tyndall at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Ayami Tyndall
Cover by Taliesin Tyndall
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The young woman with titanium eyes looks on her father's cold body but sees him only in life. Not just as she knew him, but as the world knew him. She sees him as a child, hears his laughter, runs beside him through the snow cloaked valley. She sees him meet Mother, charm her and be charmed himself, and then she watches them make love, and her. She skims through his days, his years. Hears his every breath, sees his every moment.
Then she is stepping away from the casket and she flicks a finger and her vision settles back to herself. Not from her eyes, as a normal person sees, but up and back a bit so she can see herself from behind as she walks down the gravel trail. Her golden locks flow down her back, crowned by a black scarf.
When Ylwa reaches the gathering grove at the end of the trail, she turns and sees herself turn to face the other attendees of the funeral. They have each looked into the casket, whispered a prayer over their friend or colleague or kin, and now shuffle uncomfortably and whisper more to each other. But Ylwa isn't even there anymore. She's back with Father, years ago and continents away. Her hands sway and the vision plays out from the perspective of her own six-year-old face, so she is looking up at her father from among the waves and white sand. It is more perfect than any memory could ever be, and she offers what must be her hundredth prayer that day to give thanks for her Cloud-sight. Without it she would have only a window to see him by, and that is a poor substitute. She only wishes she could feel those waves and that sand again, rough and cold and smooth and hot all at the same time. She swings the vision up and away so she can see herself, eyes as blue as the ocean shining at her father, and she turns up her audio filter until she can only hear the sounds of that beach from years ago.