Laying in a bed of cotton clippings and decaying rose trims, the weeping statue prayed. Old crayon scribble drawings decorated the halls and walls of the rooms we once played in. Now empty and dark, water damage stained the floors and ceiling of the small white steeple. Opening the small zip lock baggie, gently setting six little yellow cheese covered goldfish crackers atop a stone wall, tall grass grew where we once carved mud stick figures into the soil and old matchbox cars laid in drowned sand. Salty fat tears fell down his cheeks. I wished we had more time.
A thick iron scent drifted through the stagnant air. Wind whispering through long thistles and wild flowers. Wings flapped and fluttered as vultures gathered in the area, long blood-dyed beaks ripping apart rotting flesh. Lying in a clump of rot, the bones of the animal were chipped away. As flies laid larva below the thick blood matted fur, the musk of the dead and the alive danced together. The rot consumed it. Cars rushed by the stream-line of lights glistening on the life that grew from the corpse. Little fungal buds sprouted from the body, making art.
“And I’ll put down my roots when I die!” He screamed at his wife as he took another long swig of the potent beverage in his hand. She wept as she walked out the door. The children stood at the top of the stairwell. The home they had desperately built together over years of struggle began to crumble. With tears in her fusa eyes, she screamed her words laced with desperation. “John, please come back. I can’t do this alone!,” Her nails dragged down the wall as her legs gave from below her. Her sobs filled the once happy home.