Withered vivacity

Once upon a fireplace in a brick house at the end of the street where a crow, black as a mid October night, always perched on the picket fence, Marilyn Monroe came to back to life.

She, not Marilyn, watched the ashes from the previous night scatter around the fireplace, too weak against the unwavering breeze to say no and stand their ashy ground.

But Marilyn’s smile, ever so charming, sprung from the age beaten tamed  photo and it was the mid fifties all over again- Misfits, neat Afros, well intentioned kisses, disco lights- and she smiled.

Smiled; not because Marilyn looked so free and approachable in her short, white dress revealing whiter thighs, but because she knew it was over.

The road, that is.

Life’s road with a dozen mirages; absurdness, sadness, horror and amaranthine mortality!

Ninety years had ridden hard on the wings of haste, giving her ninety nine reasons not to live and to her family one reason to abandon her. Her Seven Year Itch had quadrupled!

And the ashes too were getting a reason to desert her- it’s the callous breeze, they whispered in that confident, Greyish tenor which was the divine gift of brilliant Soul maestros, leave and let live!

Useless ashes, she cursed, did you have to be this complacent too?

See you soon, Marilyn.

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