The scent of mandarin blossoms wafts across the fields.
And I see her..
Standing there..
Her yellow dress..
Yellow was her favorite color..
A little handwoven basket hanging from her left arm..
One she spent weeks pulling apart and reweaving until she was satisfied..
Her raven black braid almost touching the back of her knee..
She vowed to never cut her hair for fear of losing her magic.

Fireflies danced around her as the sun sank lower,
Illuminating the flatness of the earth in grey light..
From her basket, she pulled her crystals.
She said that the moon would cleanse them with a light in her eyes I could never turn away from.

I remember how--
She would laugh when I teased her about casting a spell on me..
And that she did with little effort.

It fell over me with the air of her laughter, the way she only loved odd numbers and the passion she threw into every thing she loved.

It fell over me with the scent of the mandarin oil perfume she drowned herself in every morning--

From the bottle that now sits permanently fixed upon the dresser where her clothes lie untouched since last September--

Much like the flowers lying upon her grave--
Withering away like her once warm skin beneath the heavy earth.

And I dream of joining her there.

© caspershay