'One Little Paragraph' by Joyce Bingham

Tendrils of smoke begin to rise, straight at first then wavering. She squints into the sky’s blueness; the fire is taking hold. Darker smoke billows out, enveloping the trees, green to a grey-brown. The photographs and her tightly cramped writing crackle and curl away. Words dissipating into ash, each leaving an echo of the past. Memories go unseen and unremarked, charred destroyed, wandering in the smoke. The cleansing mithers the blue shade of the sky, marring sunshine. When the heat and pain is burned apart and coolness returns. She will rake the ashes, and spread amongst his red roses. The silky ash will leach into her pores, stain her nails. She knows there will be a perfect day soon, maybe tomorrow.