my father is dead.
the sky is grey with grief and its tears pour violently onto large black umbrellas that loom over his ornate coffin.
the atmosphere is sombre. grown men. murderous men. stand still with their faces solemn. dangerous women with stony faces and grave expressions barely conceal their grief.
their king is dead.
what is to become of his kingdom? what will be the fate of his loyal subjects?
this great man who severed heads in the street and ripped beating hearts out of chests is dead in the ground!
they know they are doomed.
my mother stands by my side. she appears strong. but she grips the umbrella tightly, as if letting go of its handle will cause her to fall to ground. deep down my mother is weak with grief. deep down she is plagued by regret.
our appearance at my father's graveside is unexpected. but they do not ask questions.
they know who we are.
they probably blame us. holding their quiet resentment in their cold expressions. but on the surface they show respect. on the surface I receive a sympathetic look or two. not from his subjects. but from his friends. virtual strangers to me, the pseudo-family he was forced to create in our absence. they know that this is not my fault.
they know who to truly blame.
my mother who left my father in the dead of night cradling her sleeping child in her arms. my mother who wanted her five year old daughter to know more than death, destruction and cruelty. my mother who holds more secrets than a government spy. my mother who knew my father was dying. but was too afraid to speak the words.
my mother has commited a sin.
that this town and I cannot forgive.
