Kalma

3677 0 0

Resting against the cool marble she breathed in the scents of fall. This was her favorite time of year. The leaves collect under the trees, flowers shed their petals and leaves and retreat underground, and streams begin to slow in their travels. The chill, the smell of decomposition and mold that lightly tinges the air, all renewed her sense of purpose. It brought Surma to life too. He chased the squirrels and rabbits while they ran for their lives. Surma’s antics were always good for a laugh. As she pushed herself away from the gravestone, Kalma called to Surma, “Come on, Surma, time to get to work.” As they headed for the gates, mold began to spread in their wake, and the flowers left in tribute to the dead, died in turn.