She died last night. Or was it this morning? The headache knocking at her skull says it was yesterday evening. With an inhale and a swallow she knew she was dreaming.
Her head is in mourning because of it. Every second was ticking a minute faster than it should. She tried to hang on to the praying hands when they came together at midnight up high and six thirty below. By this time the slurring made it hard for her to be understood.
What was the point of waiting when all she had to do was blink. Patterns of the drifting leaves looked that same as they did last fall. Blink. The wind smell the same. Like dead grass.
Was she asleep?