(In the poetic words of Kahlil Gibran, “I care about your happiness just as you care about mine. I could not be at peace if you were not.”)
In memory of a smile:
After the clouds of grief finally lifted, the faeries stood like toy soldiers along a parade route. Their shadows were missing. Their wings were drooped in the heavy air. The sun was gone and the playground was soggy. None of them had been trained for this, but they stood on their tiny tiptoes in order to appear tall and strong for the event in which they found themselves participating.
The body of their Beloved was carried slowly past them on a flat wooden raft. They could hardly recognize him. There was no sunlight radiating from his face. There was no joy. It was now an ordinary face like so many others. A Zoloft face. Yet the crowd was not in mourning at all. They cheered and laughed and threw rice and rose petals toward the raft as it passed slowly by. The faeries had long since learned to be silent, because their giggles had always seemed to interfere with the humans all around them. They had slowly changed in color from the green of new grass, to the oranges of autumn, and finally to the brown that made them look like their brownie cousins going trick-or-treating.
Long after the crowd dispersed, the faeries returned to the playground for a private moment of sadness. The sun would never come out to dry the earth again. They no longer had a purpose here. But they could not leave their Beloved. As they gazed at a bonfire which was more like a funeral pyre to them, their wings began to dry just enough to allow them to hover over the flames. One by one, they each shed a tear for the perfection that was now gone forever. The tears caused the fire to crackle and spark. It was the night of the Hunters Full Moon, and in the presence of all the witches and goddesses that had ever been conjured, each little faerie was lifted to the sky to become a sparkly star, ever at watch over her Beloved, but never to play again.