update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/007.md

@@ -68,6 +68,36 @@ There is loss in our lives and in our hearts and in our minds.
 
 But the tenth stanza knows *these* losses with a particular keenness. They leave empty seats and full plates at the table for these three who are gone. They speak the names of the dead on at least their Yahrzeit when they light the candle, and, for some of them, far more often, for The Woman's Cocladist was very fond of Death Itself, as the two loved each other fiercely, and it was perhaps this loss that drove Her Cocladist's bitterness and aught-elses.
 
+Friends, you must understand that *we* love *us.* Even those of us who bore hatred for the others, the hatred of much of the sixth and seventh stanzas for others within the clade, even they love *us.* Some of us just bear a particular love for others of us. I have my beloved up-tree, yes? And ey has eir trickster partner, yes? And My Friend has The Musician, yes?
+
+*We* love *us,* and The Woman's Cocladist loved Death Itself.
+
+And so The Woman walked quietly up the stairs and knocked on Her Cocladist's door.
+
+"Come in," came the quiet reply.
+
+The Woman pushed the door open and bowed. "Rejoice."
+
+"Ah, End Of Endings," Her Cocladist said from the amorphous chair she had claimed as her own, a perch over by the window where she read. Beside her: a stack of books. Behind her: several more. Lining the walls of the room: shelf after shelf after shelf after shelf of books. Shelf after shelf after– ah, the words fit so poorly, and so I try again and again and again to write them again.
+
+"May I join you for a few moments?"
+
+"Of course. What brings you to the end of the hall?"
+
+"I would like to sit by Death Itself's bed for a few minutes."
+
+Her Cocladist, halfway through setting her book aside, froze, and a wash of skunk spiraled up along her form, only to be replaced yet again by humanity, black fur sprouting, wilting, fading only to be replaced by skin. "Why?"
+
+The Woman stood still in the doorway. "Because I am sad, and because I miss her."
+
+"Alright," Her Cocladist said and finished the act of setting her book down, tented over the open page — no, do not get angry at her; sys-side, there are no broken bindings. "Do not sit on her bed."
+
+The Woman bowed once more and stepped at last over the threshold, shutting the door behind her.
+
+Along the other wall — that wall that had been hidden to the woman — was a simple bed, a single bed, a single-size mattress, and a wall painted in a feathery ombré from golden orange to purple-black. The covers were rumpled, clearly slept in. Clearly slept in and also clearly frozen in time, for the bed had not been touched since Death Itself had quit fifty seven years before. The Woman would not sit on it, even had Her Cocladist not warned her, for such was simply the way of things. The same was true of I Do Not Know's bed, and the only person who had laid in Should We Forget's bed was The Oneirotect who deserved such an expression of grief.
+
+The Woman had her own ritual of grief to perform, though, and this did not call for touching the bed
+
 -----
 
 <!-- The Dog and The Rabbit-Chaser gives her the idea when she goes to visit Motes to ask about change -->