He smiled, bending down to look at the single flower waving in the pavement. The movement allowed the cold wind to jump down his collar, causing an involuntary shiver.
“Hello, there. You are a brave one.” He murmured, pulling a pen out of his pocket. Slowly, methodically, he worked around the camellia flower, careful not to clip the brilliant pink of her petals as he freed her and popped her into his pocket.
He continued his way down the street, watching his breath puff out into the world. Australian winters had a way of sinking into your bones, the wind wrapping around you in cold’s embrace. No snow. But the chill stuck to you and was hard to shake. Like a wet kiss from an old, unknown relative.
Still, he smiled, nearing his destination. He picked his way through the shrubbery and rose bushes, gently maneuvering around the erected stone tablets. Wet grass made his tread silent, his hand gently leaving an invisible trail down the monuments.
The sun glowed a warm shot through the cemetery, leaving behind a fire’s blush. Sunset. Heaven’s last drink call before the chill really set in.
He breathed fire into his palms, ducking down to his audience. A children’s garden. In the fading light the roses were long gone, rotting toys and damp wooden trucks remaining. Years too short clustered on stone headstones.
He took out the flower, holding her aloft so it touched the last light outlined on the skyline. The light winked out. A moment later it caught fire on the flower, setting her alight in a bright glow. It seeped into the flower, running down her petals and down the stem.
He began to paint the air with the flower. The glow bleeding down the stem and into his hands. It warmed him, running up his arm and flaring under his clothes. The Dusk Bloom created golden ink, the words too ancient to speak aloud. The meaning was clear, hovering and then sinking into the grass beneath his feet.
Cheerful.
Children’s laughter exploded into the air. A merry whistle whipped up the wind and blew it out warmer than a fire’s crackle. A girl clutching a dolly pulled at his jacket, having him kneel in the now dry grass.
“Can you tie Molly’s ribbon back on?”
“Of course, Darling.” He replied, gently taking her doll and tying a red ribbon into its hair. The girl pulled the doll into a hug, spinning in a circle.
He spent many minutes fixing buttons, tying bows, screwing wheels back into place. Soon he had a whole class of dancing, laughing, singing children. A small boy giggled, reaching up his small hands for his spiderman soft toy.
“Okay, now.” The Guardian said, smiling openly at the children. “Go and bring the joy you have been given. You know no pain. You know no sadness. But there are many here who do. Wrap them in your wonder, in your bliss. Warm hearts trapped in winter.”
They nodded enthusiastically, many dancing on the spot. With arms outstretched they took to the sky, beings of light and joy. Their souls brushed against him, and he cried with delight, warmed by the small hands as they whispered their farewells in sing-song.
One child remained; her white gown enveloped in a purple glow. She curtsied, the four-year-old beaming at him. He knelt before her, offering her the flower. She leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. Together they wandered the graveyard, calling to those who wished to enter the dreams of loved ones.
Grandmothers to hug grandchildren. Sons to visit mothers. Husbands to comfort wives. Mothers to cheer on her children. Some simply called their friends and spouses to toast the living, calling out to the Guardian with a holler and a joke.
Finally, he stopped before a grave, gently pressing a hand to the weathered stone long lost to time. The being stepped from the ether, her long brown hair rushing down her shoulders. She wore overalls and a paint stripe on one cheek. He held out a hand and they danced. Weaving between the onlookers and chatting friends. As they held eachother she began to sing, her voice piercing through any cold left in the Memory Garden.
He laughed, adding a beautiful tenor to her tune. They sang in a tongue long lost to the living. But it held a warmth winter could not freeze. Of love and wonder and loss. The kind of loss that expected a return. A child returning to his mother after a long day at school. A father returning to his children after work. A pet scratching at the back door for dinner.
They sang of a grace that would seep into every bad day. Renewed for the journey ahead.
They danced back to the entrance, sharing a single kiss by the archway, their breath mingling and hot.
“Until the morrow, my love.” He promised, pressing a palm to her cheek. “You will guide them home, just as I guide them here.”
“May it be a cold one.” She smiled, raising her eyes up to watch the stars, “light is so much warmer in the cold.”
He nodded, resting his forehead against hers before she turned, lifting a hand in farewell as she faded into the starlight.
Warmth spread through him, his heart almost aching with how full it felt. With hands in his pockets, he wandered home.
Cheerful.
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