Beyond The Curtains

I could not figure out how to end this....

A Cross of Gold

The crush of the pillow against my mouth,
when I inhale, it smells like oatmeal and old juniper perfume.

I tuck my head in, collapsing into the fetal position,
like a fold-away chair.

My hands are unusually cold and I can feel the snow,
waiting outside, as I turn the cross over in my hands.

There's a knock on the door,
but I've locked it from the inside with a quick, jerky movement.

The quilt beneath me is soft, like her, and lumpy too,
but in the time-worn way that reminds you of old furniture and things you would never give up.

I always know right before I'm about to cry,
and I feel it now: a sharp, resounding pain behind my nose.

The quilt consumes me, and all that I breathe is oatmeal and juniper.
Her last trace.

~Hammeh