The birds sang.
There was a cheerful ring to them, at once bounce and jaunt, as they wheeled and flirted and glided among the flowers and green. No, despite the chill of yesterday, no one could deny that spring in all her beauty had arrived finally. Sweet perfume of lilac danced through the air, never overstaying its welcome, always leaving you wanting more. The grass was immaculately groomed, the first chartreuse shock coloring over the winter drab. Her eyes took in such beauty that it joined as one before her. It brought to mind past days.
The people seemed at peace with it. Their gentle murmuring and lulling conversation carried on the breeze, even the occasional laugh. With a crowd this big there were bound to be a few. There were other children present, of course. The grand stone architecture, so finely chiseled and ornately decorated, lent an air of Victorian glamour. And the… guests? Attendees? Participants? No, she checked herself. They certainly were not participants. She was not even a participant, and she had planned the whole thing. The strangers were all dressed to the nines.
Somewhere she thought she heard a bicycle bell ring. Carried by the wind, certainly – there were no paths among the yew trees. The flowers festooned everywhere left no room for them, in the trees and bushes and stonework all around. Lilies, marigolds, chrysanthemums, poppies – every type and kind surrounded her.
Her eyes were drawn to the hands. Some fidgeting with watches, some idly drumming fingers, some self-consciously still and firm. Smaller hands held in larger ones.
The minister turned away from a group of chuckling men, smile still on his face as he walked to the front, between an arrangement and a small box. He began calling everyone to attention, reaching for solemnity but unable to hide a trace of mirth. The crowd, still murmuring, gathered in their places. She was there already. Eyes dry. She had elected not to speak.
Spring for the moment was here.
Disassembly 