Perfect Blue

Girl on beach

The sky, the sky is a perfect blue. The wind still howls but the sun is out and the sky is radiant. It could be summer. At least from the window of my studio. Shall I pretend? And this morning it was pitch, wet and storming. What a difference a few hours can make. The clouds are moving quickly, ships, mighty ships of fluffy-ness. The light is gorgeous. A Mediterranean light. Sharp light. A need to wear sun-glasses light. Eyes squinting.

I notice shoes. Most peoples’ are muddy, scuffed. He brings in sand on his. A grainy, grey, silver-like sand.

He was cremated in secret. He’d arranged it so that it would be so. Can you do that? Is that what wealth and influence brings? No, you can’t come. Leave me to disappear in peace. The third day and the papers are beginning to rake up dirt. Leave me be. Leave me to disappear in peace. Did I tell you that I don’t want a funeral, and nor does he? Leave us to disappear in peace. No fuss. He didn’t want any fuss. Mozart’s body being poured, unceremoniously into a mass grave. His corpse bouncing as it landed atop another.

Let us disappear in peace. For we will disappear. If he can go we all can. Dust to dust.

Think about your death, he says. Imagine it. To be nothing. To be no more. Would it be so bad? I am ready. I have been for a long time. Though this perfect blue is a bonus. For now it will do. Thank you. Thank you.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.