Four days. Ninety-six hours. Five thousand seven hundred and 60 minutes. The clock ticked steadily 345,600 times. The radio played approximately 1,900 songs.
Inside, sheltered from blowflies, frigid night temperatures, bright morning sunlight, prying eyes of strangers and neighbors alike, she waited. For four days.
For four days, nature compelled the flesh, expanding and tightening against cotton fabric, reaching for equilibrium between the seen and unseen. Swollen belly pregnant with promise.
Restoring continuity between the body and the spirit so the visage conveys what laid inside. The spirit firmly encased in its hellish quagmire of specters so much so the body crossed vast eternities to rejoin it.
Four days it took to portray the decay inside. Decay so jealously guarded and secretly nurtured behind a translucent paper-thin hull until that day when it burst out a seedling reaching for the sky.
For four days, the angels of mortis, autolysis, bloat, and liquefaction appeared in succession graced her each with a kiss.
In four days, they brought in death a balance that sixty years of life could not.
Was it a phantasmagorical vision or a final moment of probity?
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