Everything was black. Which in a way is funny because that is my favorite color. The sea was black as if all the oil thrown into the sea had finally swallowed it up. The sun bathed the earth in black and yet everything was visible and strange. Not like the night that brushed the dusk with dark colors, but as if the whole world was dead and yet it kept going. 

There was also the food. Black, as if someone had let it burn. I chewed each piece of hamburger reminding myself how fashionable it had once been. Even the lettuce, everything was black. And yet, so tasty. I felt every taste even though everything looked the same. 

It was all so crazy and strange but I was still curious, as if I needed to test how far it would go. Taking a dark knife, I lifted it over my skin of the same color and made a cut, deep and painful. Laughing above my teeth that may or may not been rotten, I laughed about the dark liquid that oozed out. It was so real, so beautiful and thick. I ran a finger over it and put the liquid in my mouth, still tasting metallic. 

It felt like a perfect, almost unreal world. Maybe it was me waiting for the end of the world, maybe it was my conscience fading away. When a cloud of black smoke dissolved into gray, the smell of cigarettes escaped through the window. All the colors came back and yet nothing looked so beautiful. Not even the golden sun. So raising the cigarette to my mouth, I drew in the air until everything went black again.

The waiter left, taking the order, and the plate of pie that was already on the table. it was uneaten and that made me notice things. the table was full of things, actually. entrees, desserts, drinks. there wasn’t much there that was left out of the menu, and I suspected that those excluded were just removed before.

the is tall, with long hair and fashionable clothes. I can’t see much from behind, but I can guess she is in her thirties. she bearly touches any of the food. all she does is look at the napkin that is spread in front of her. there is some kind of intricate diagram on that. a flow chart.

the lady traces her finger carefully , moves through arrows and squares, puzzles things, then goes back to this square or that. when the waiter arrives with the new order, a mouth-watering chocolate mousse, she consults the diagram, pays in cash, tips as well. the waiter asks, and takes something else off the table again. out of habbit, he asks will there be anything else, or will she want something more, which sends her again to consult the diagram. she reaches a certain square and orders something. completely oblivious. she orders, pays, gets food, sends food, she tips well, I think, cause the guy, is so happy.

this goes on and on, a parade of food is marched on and off the table, with little more than a casual nibble here or there.

I am watching this. this is insane! I can’t leave. she seems to be trapped in this flowchart loop thing. but I don’t dare disturb this. what if I make things worse? in the end, everybody has a right to both privacy, and to be weird.

finally it’s eleven, my cup of coffee is ancient history, and the stools on all the tables are sitting upside down on the top. the waiter approaches, and hesitantly tells her that it’s last call. she consults the diagram yet again, and asks the waiter “what is my name?” to which the guy replies: “Rose Ellison”. the lady traces her finger down the bottom of the napkin. I can’t restrain myself any longer, so I stand and peek. the square she points to goes : ” enquire what is your name” . I look above that; an arrow and a square: “you’re informed it’s closing time”.

finally, below the question of the name is a branching point. another two arrows: ” if your name is Rose , pay, tip and go home ” the other: “if waiter doesn’t know name, or name is not Rose, then demand to see an appointed representative of the Mazda car dealership. do not leave until a member arrives.”

the lady leaves. she doesn’t take the napkin. but there are more like it, to be sure.

It has been a year now, that the little yellow bird flew home

that little orange bird, misses her so much everyday...

but never feels alone

the yellow bird- so lovely, brave, and kind-

is always still... and will always be on the orange bird's mind

they loved one another in such a profound way-

I'm sure the sky will just light up when they meet again one day

a hundred songs, ten dozen poems; the two made together

that energy of love, will live on and fly forever

in all things green, pinks, reds, blooms of blue and violet-

in harry potter, and Bible stories, and kindness, the little yellow bird's memory will always highlighted

in giant storms and rain and thunder, board games and high school plays- in her nephew's hearts- nothing could put asunder

as for the little orange bird, it is with certainty not wonder-

that never was there a better aunt, friend, daughter, wife, Gram and mother

My Aunt Vicky loved me, and I loved her so much back- she could make anything grow, it always amazed me- in any garden she tended, and all the hearts she mended. xo