She said time is about to come.
She said we had to act. It’s no use going against it… the Party… We are old. Too old already.
So old, we’re made of love.
We should go as we always hoped we will, doting the earth, dreaming of clouds.
Not up a furnace, no… no…
Look at my hands!, she said. These are the roots of a tree… No urn can hold them! See the brown spots? The meanders of blood? The canyons of wrinkles?
She could not see me as ashes.
A bumble bee?
A bumble bee!


It will all be good… Our last tea together. A spoonful of honey and we’ll not taste the bitterness. There, there. It will all be good.
We paused and looked down at the street. A storm is coming, lento. Clouds gorging on clouds, spewing out gasps of wind.
And then?, I asked.
And then… we’ll blossom together, she said.