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Nothing Burns as Bright as You

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Ashley Woodfolk

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“Later these thoughts would come back to haunt me, though I could not have anticipated that your compulsion to manhandle your unruly, misshapen experience into a tidy box, like someone trying to cram a wild tangle of driftwood into a hard-shell Samsonite suitcase, as well as this sincere confusion of the is with the ought to be—your heartrending tendency to mistake what you actually had for what you desperately wanted—would produce such devastating consequences.”

“Each of the dancers took a partner, the living with the dead, each to each. Bod reached out his hand and found himself touching fingers with, and gazing into the grey eyes of, the lady in the cobweb dress. She smiled at him. “Hello, Bod,” she said. “Hello,” he said, as he danced with her. “I don’t know your name.” “Names aren’t really important,” she said. “I love your horse. He’s so big! I never knew horses could be that big.” “He is gentle enough to bear the mightiest of you away on his broad back, and strong enough for the smallest of you as well.” “Can I ride him?” asked Bod. “One day,” she told him, and her cobweb skirts shimmered. “One day. Everybody does.” “Promise?” I promise.”

“When do you want to receive tribute, dead or alive? Without dispute, it is cute to pay tribute to the living. Destitute of words to salute good repute is no excuse. Our charity should begin with the living. Parents are a good starting point. We can't reciprocate by giving them life but we can at least impart quality and jollity to their lives by rendering them occasional tribute. If you have swallowed the pleasantries meant for your loved ones, please vomit them now to avoid the constipation of regret.”