The last periwinkle fades from the sky and Rose’s life is at its end. All day her family members have come and gone. Now they open the blinds to let the yellow grief pour out of the house.
Mist falls and in the beams of the streetlamps it looks as if the air is crying. Like amber shards the pieces fall. Further down the street they compact a violet veil.
The mist in the air has called the mosquitos out of the woods. They sting.
Up into the grey air: the front of the house splashed in lemon light. The cars align head to heel in the driveway: all her coven have settled inside.
The lamps burn into the night; the green has faded. The dark brown underside of things show. In night the cladding glows in different hues of yellow.
Yellow the starcaps of flowers burst, proferred to the night with a daylight intensity, the blackblue air closing around the petals. Weeping, their anthers curl to keep all parts warm for the bees.
Night hushes and brings out crickets. A course of air, flowers and sound rival the still black and blue colors of the night. And all of this darkness bonds to the few lights in the windows. Yellow, they draw the eye amberly from its hideout in the shadows.
No colors survive. The prayers of lamps, no brighter than stones, push but cannot hide the dark.
Somewhere close a firecracker bangs against the sky. In the bluest hour nearing she will take her last breath, and pass.