Tribute to A Sigh

A tribute to a quote from Bluesuzanne's Lead Me to Your Arms chapter 15; "He sighs and it goes on forever".

He lies on the bed, weary with life and age, thinking of the loves ones that had left him behind. Their faces dance behind his eyelids as he remembers the long course of his life, and he ponders over his choices and the results they had given him. He props up his head, shifts to find a comfortable position—something that is almost a myth in old age—and closes his eyes.

He sighs and it goes on forever.

It laces the wind that blows out of the window, flinging itself rebelliously across the open fields that shine with snow and ice like a child, twining with the finger-like branches of naked trees like delicate blossoms.

It presses upon the crashing waves that lashes angrily, bitterly against the cliffs, erodes the silent, watchful stones and whistles inside the hollow bleached driftwoods in a song of ancient times.

It whispers, shifts between the threads of sunlight, to drop with the rain and reach toward the sky and mingle with clouds, both moody and kind.

It goes and goes and goes…

Nearby, as if in answer, a wail rises; slow and high and thin.

It trembles the air, even the sun seem to shiver.

It rises and rises in an endless loop of agony and despair.

It fills the air with a throbbing sense of grief, of sadness; the kind that hallows out the body, leaving it barren and cold.

The La Push inhabitants can feel all the hair on their body rise, their throats close and their eyes sting at the sound that holds the sound of tears and overwhelming ache like cupped palms.

Unashamed, unrestrained, unparallel in its cry of anguish.

It continues as if there is no end in sight well into the night.

It rises alarmingly without pause, without falter as if the body it comes from doesn't need breath, rest or nourishment, as if pain itself is what gives the body its strength. Then out of nowhere when the moon, a fat shining orb, climbs stealthily across the solemn sky, howls; morose and somber shiver in the night, entangle with the desolate wail in the misty dark air and on they continue until dawn spills sunlight across the awakening sky.

Morning finds people out of their beds, wondering about the sudden peculiar silence.

Morning finds Jacob Black, lying in his bed; his breath as still, as silent, as the morning air.