One morning, they forgot what they were doing. The flowers needed watering, the stacks, organizing. Nobody could find their shoes. They washed and they washed and they washed but it wouldn't come out.

Once upon a time there was a story, which shortly thereafter came to an end. There was a lovely funeral, in the spring, the Camelias arching their soft, blossoming branches toward a tiny grave, and a few mourners standing respectfully, not crying, but celebrating. They wished their sweaters were lighter, their schedules less packed. They wished that they had truly known the story as it was, instead of always trying to give it direction, helpful nudging. Still, they celebrated that the story existed; though awkward and bumbling with too-long pants, he he had once been alive for them and they treasured their memories of him for many years.