An then she died. But there wasn’t anything before that. At least, not that she could think of. Which is why she let her body sink into the soil and let go of those roots she had so loosely tapped hold of. Or they let her go and she fell, sinking deeper and deeper to the bottom of an emptiness so big and wide that it swallowed her whole. It was over. And all of the beginnings she had placed together did not equal one moment of truth, not a solid kernel of potentiality, not a smidgen of actuality put into place.
But it was her destiny to watch these things die with her. The first memory of cherry blossoms, the scent of denial. Who she was then did not respond to her last moment, it did not call her back. It did not know her name. Its silence mocked the vacuous horizon that wept not one single tear drop of rain.
