Passerby
1.
When I see her, she's standing next to the casket - cold, closed, ready to be lowered into the ground. I think she wants to cry, but no tears will come. So she just stands there, never diverting her gaze from the black box before her. It started snowing about a half of an hour ago, nothing more than a light dusting of flurries, not enough to stick. The little snowflakes dot the casket lid, only to dissolve seconds later, leaving behind tiny, frigid teardrops.
It's so cold.
I wonder if she can feel it too.
She finally tears her eyes from the casket, only to look at me. I meet her gaze, and remember how I had always wished my eyes could be midnight blue like hers, that my irises could absorb the colors of the evening sky and the shine of the stars. I know she sees me, and I think she wants to say something, but she doesn't, because you're not supposed to talk to dead people.
It's so cold.
I wonder if she can feel it too.
She finally tears her eyes from the casket, only to look at me. I meet her gaze, and remember how I had always wished my eyes could be midnight blue like hers, that my irises could absorb the colors of the evening sky and the shine of the stars. I know she sees me, and I think she wants to say something, but she doesn't, because you're not supposed to talk to dead people.