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꒰ THE WAY I LOVED YOU! ꒱ . . . . . -𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝘅𝗹𝗱𝘀
ღ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘, 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇-𝟏𝟒𝟕𝟑 or, the city and universe of LUNA SUNDARI ༉
❛ five months before ❜
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃 to mourn the good and rejoice at the terrible. While a miserable downpour had ensued the day Miguel O'Hara had come to Luna's world, the day she attended the funeral of Mary Jane Watson there were no clouds blocking the land below, and a bright blue sky was above. Birds whistled outside the cemetery, for even animals would not trod in such a silent and saddened space, and the chatter of people dimmed only slightly as they walked on the sidewalk past the black fences of the largest cemetery in New York City. But it didn't seem like the largest cemetery in the city in the secluded Watson Wing where three generations of Watsons were buried in a neat and orderly fashion.
Instead of a simple grave marker, each one had some sort of monument that stated their achievements in life and their relation to the eldest man of the family at their time of death. Luna walked by herself, eyes looking at the engraved messages half covered by the numerous flowers and trinkets clustered around them. On the first Sunday of each and every month without fail, Philip Watson uprooted his family for a day and brought them to the Watson Wing of the cemetery clothed in solid black complete with fine gloves and long sleeves, rain or shine, scorching heat or freezing snow. And each month, they would bring a car trunk's full of bouquets and letters to mourn and honor the dead.
Before Mary Jane was to be added to the buried, it was customary to place a flower at the grave each man who passed before her. Luna knelt and placed a bright red rose on the grassy bed over Thomas Watson's grave. The sun beat relentlessly on her back, on the black fabric of her dress and the leather of her gloves. Her vision was clouded by the small veil over her eyes attached to an angled hat with a small black flower connecting the veil to the hat itself. She paused and waited the required thirty seconds of supposed mourning time and, as she always did, burnt the time away by reading the inscription on the monument's silver plaque.
HERE LIES: THOMAS WATSON. YOUNGEST SON OF SIR ABRAHAM WATSON AND HEAD OF THE WATSON PHILANTHROPY ORGANIZATION. MAY HE BE REMEMBERED UNTIL THESE WORDS FADE WITH TIME.
