I stood towards the back of the long, low room. Pale skin and auburn hair contrasted starkly with dark lips and the black lace covering the fragile frame of my body.

Various wisps of flat conversation fell deafly upon my unknowing ears. I watched idly as my fellow mourners milled around me in meaningless small talk. All sense of the reality surrounding my being fell away as my eyes were affixed to the solitary patriarch of the room.

He was the purpose we were all congregated here. My eyes observed him glassily, mirthlessly.

He was a box. Or, he might as well have been the box. A long, smooth cedar box, hewn of an ancient cedar tree who had lived a full life in a forest somewhere. I wondered if the tree had known that he would one day give his life in order to spend his eternity bound with another whom had kissed earthly sentience goodbye. It was an oddly comforting thought.

My eyes, though growing stale, refused to grant me the solace of tears. I could ponder fanciful romantic thoughts as much as I pleased, but even fine imagination could not alter the reality of death.

Death.

The word felt cold and bleak, and I felt my soul frost over ever so slightly. I hardly even knew the man in the cedar box. His eyes were shut in an eternal sleep from which he would never awaken. I knew I could go across the room and shout and scream-- “Hello! Remember me? I'm your niece!” But he would never open his eyes. He was right there-- and yet-- he wasn't.

I simply proceeded to observe, maintaining my private and silent vigil. Faceless women and men in dark attire appeared in my line of sight, and extended flat condolences. I continued to stand, still as a statue. Only a handful of lingering mourners remained scattered, dully sipping watery coffee and forever maintaining their pointless circles of chatter.

I began to pull my eyes away from their locked position when I noticed a solitary mourner standing in the corner. He was very small, with delicate features and skinny limbs. Dark hair and light eyes, a photographic replica of my uncle in his youth. He was the sole grandson of the man in the box. His pride and joy.

Slowly, the little waif approached his grandfather as though he were approaching his bedside. He placed a frail hand upon the smooth cedar edge of the coffin and gazed down upon the sleeping face. He seemed to be moving his mouth in a quiet, reverent conversation.

Observing this strangely beautiful scene, I realized I was a witness to a moment too sacred and reverent to document by simple photograph or even painting. It was the most lovely kind of sadness, like trees letting go of their foliage in the autumn. A beauty not native to this earth, I am humbled to have been allowed the privilege of observing it.

As I watched the young boy bid his beloved grandfather farewell, my mind began to reawaken itself. Turning my poised body away from the cedar box and his visitor, I began a slow procession around the long, low room.

A plethora of photographs from days of yore were placed in various places for mourners to reflect upon. My fellow darkly clad strangers paid them little heed, as they seemed to take their solace in empty words. Yet as I studied each picture-- a Christmas morning, a wedding, a party, a graduation-- there grew an increasing sense of peace.

I turned my head back to the cedar box, where the boy was now kneeling in silent prayer. Shifting my attention to the face of the man who was sleeping, I gently touched a photograph of he and his wife at their home in Larchmont.

Though his life story was now over, the last chapter ended and the book shut... this man had lived. This man who was lying there, bound in an endless rest and never again to see the light of day had passed with a blissful smile upon his lips and absolute peace within his heart.

He had known he was in his final chapter. He had reconciled the loose ends of the past and had forgiven debts of yesterday. He had wept his last over old pains and put them to rest. He had lived his life in total love and had died peacefully, knowing his personal story was over.

As I looked from the photograph of the smiling, lovestruck man to the lifeless, sleeping form in the cedar box, I knew that he was still happy--wherever he was. As he lay there silently with nothing left ahead of him, it dawned on me... his final monument was a message. It was a message of hope to his mourners who cared enough to listen. To those who weren't ambling in circles listening to each other with mortal, hungry ears. It was for those wise enough to listen with their beating hearts.

His final testimony was for us to be in his position one day. For we all will be. We all are human. We are born, we live, we die. This is unavoidable. But when I am the box at the head of the room, the cause of discussion and assembly and black lace and wet eyes... will I have left a legacy of love and kindness? Will those gathered in the long dark room be there out of obligation, or because I was a positive and good influence in their lives? Will I have debts and grudges on my shoulders? Or will I forgive all and lie in my box a free and peaceful woman?

The man in the cedar box was a free and peaceful man. His choices were made, his life's book closed. But his young grandson and I... we still had the power to choose. All ahead of us was uncertain. The love and heartbreak and happiness and sadness and beauty and ugliness and peace of life still lay in the vast unknown facing us each and every day. It was all behind the peaceful man in the cedar box. And as I observed the young boy cross himself and straggle out of the long room, I allowed myself a faint smile. The little boy had left the side of the man with no story left to tell, and would go tell his own.

I parted through the sparse sea of darkly clad humanity and finally approached the cedar box. The man within seemed to be smiling gently. He knew I had understood his message. And I was certain his young grandson had as well.

Bending a knee, I kissed my satin gloved hand and placed my mauve fingertips upon his forehead. Whispering a silent thanks and farewell, I finally felt a single tear escape my placid eye.

Smiling, I turned away from the man in the cedar box. As I gradually picked my way through the lost mourners, I was amused by the puzzled expressions I was receiving in accordance with my serenity. But I did not care. The man's message is clear as day to anyone who is brave enough to listen with the heart.

The option of choice is a gift of the living. I have now internalized the message the man gave me, and cherish the choices I have left to make. And one day, I shall pass the message on to other brave souls who come to listen.

Only then will I truly be set free.

Once upon a time, in the lovely kingdom of Primavera, there lived a beautiful princess named Princess Angela. She was willowy and graceful, with long blonde hair and brown eyes and rosebud lips which smiled with kind light on her peaceful subjects. She loved ruling the kingdom of Primavera, because life there was very orderly and lovely.

The kingdom lived in perpetual springtime. Flowers bloomed, the weather stayed temperate and the world was filled with love and fresh prosperity. Princess Angela was very grateful for this. Springtime was very predictably lovely, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

The princess had intelligence to match her beauty. She spent much of the daytime reclined in the palace library, reading as many books as she possibly could.

One day, she came across an old mahogany book bound in gold. It was propped up behind the many shelves of pastel volumes, and its dark coloring intrigued her. She pulled it off the shelf and into her lap.

As she began to read, the book brought to mind images of things she had never thought to imagine before. A kingdom where the leaves turned red and gold and orange and the air was crisp and smelled of firewood began to form in her mind. The world the book described sounded fiery and beautiful.

She looked out the window and saw the pink, springtime blossoms of the cherry trees. She loved her world of everlasting spring. But she had never seen anything like the world described in the book. She had to know whether it was true or not.

Pushing her feet back into her white lace slippers, she picked up the mahogany book and left to visit her dear Sir Henry, a very kind and brilliant man.

Sir Henry had been her childhood friend and was now her springtime lover. He has grass green eyes and had hair of spun gold, and seemed to walk on the breath of spring itself. He was neither here nor there, yet whenever Princess Angela wanted him, he would come to her side.

Standing in the gazebo in the middle of the rose arbor in the palace gardens, the Princess stared out into the hazy pink afternoon. “Oh, my dearest Henry. Please come help me.”

Presently, the sound of hoofbeats cut the still air. Sir Henry rode onto the terrace on his milk white steed with the grandeur of the most chivalristic nobleman. The golden sun caught his smiling eyes and made the Princess’s heart skip a beat.

Dismounting, Sir Henry entered the gazebo and kissed his princess’s china hand in greeting. “Loveliest Angela. Why have you called me into the grace of your presence today? I will be delighted to assist you in any way I might.”

With a rose-petal blush upon her alabaster cheeks, Princess Angela produced the mahogany book from behind her back. “Darling Henry, can you help me to understand the kingdom this book describes? Is it true?”

When they landed upon the book in Angela’s hands, Sir Henry’s eyes took on the saddest light she had ever seen. There was the smallest smile on his lips. “Oh my love. I always feared this day was coming. I had hoped it would not come upon us, but I know you always seek beauty. And you have found it yet again.”

Angela blinked. “Whatever do you mean, Henry? What’s wrong?”

The sad smile was still upon his lips. “Nothing is wrong, my sweet. But spring must end now.”

Angela was stunned. Seeing the lost expression on her face, Sir Henry took her hand in his and ran a thumb over hers as he explained:

“The kingdom described in the book is this kingdom, many moons ago. The leaves changed color and fell off of the trees because it was Autumn. Autumn is a season, much like Spring is a season.”

He paused, looking down at their hands. “There are normally many seasons. Spring and Autumn are only two of them. The other two are called Winter and Summer. Winter brings silver air and white stars which fall from the heavens and bathe the earth in calm. Summer brings lemonade and clear blue skies and golden sunlight which gilds everything in precious bliss.”

“It all sounds lovely, Henry. Why do we only have spring?”

Henry met her eyes sadly. “Spring brings hope to people. Spring means new beginnings, love, life, and perpetual beauty. It means blossoms and fresh air and happiness. People loved these feelings. They wanted to keep them forever.” He looked back down at their joined hands. “So although Autumn brought bounty and winter brought anticipation and summer brought reward, the people also felt as though they brought negative things. Autumn brought a feeling of ending. Winter brought a feeling of hopelessness and summer brought empty promises. So they did away with them, and only kept spring because to them it meant perpetual happiness.”

Angela met his eyes again. “That's foolish, isn't it? People don't want something gorgeous because of the potential sadnesses attached to it.”

Henry nodded. “It is. But the kingdom wanted it at the time. So they brought my father.”

Angela looked up suddenly. “Your father?”

Again, Henry nodded. “My father was the baron of spring. As long as he stayed in the kingdom of Primavera, spring would be eternal. As time past, my father married the Lady Aster and she gave birth to me. Alas, my father had to leave to bring springtime to another kingdom. He brought my mother with him and left me here to continue his legacy.”

Angela shifted her gaze back down to their joined hands. She was beginning to understand. “I'm sorry Henry. But our kingdom needs seasons again. My people need to learn to love the beauty of change again, instead of fearing the hatred of it. As gorgeous as spring is, there's so much beauty just waiting to be found. If we stay in one endless loop, how are we to know what we have in store? What's familiar will always be comfortable. But there's so much else to see if we can only allow ourselves.”

Henry smiled upon her beautiful rosy face. “Of course, lovely Angela. I knew you would make the right decision for you and your people. But if spring leaves, I must leave too.”

Angela looked at his lovely eyes sadly, and wrapped her arms around him. “I shall miss you terribly, my Henry.” He stroked her long hair and gently smiled. “I will miss you too. But you will find a prince who will be there for you through all seasons. And I will always be with you in the breath of a spring breeze. Spring always comes back after winter chills the earth.”

Angela felt a single crystal tear slip from her eye and land on his shoulder. But she pulled back and smiled up at him.

“Good-bye, my Henry. See you in the spring.”

He gently placed a hand on her alabaster cheek. “Good-bye, lovely Angela. Go find all the beauty you possibly can.”

He leaned down and placed a final, gentle kiss on her rosebud lips. When Angela opened her eyes, she found that he was gone. He had turned into rose petals, which were being picked up by the breeze and going where spring was needed next.

She smiled. Leaving the gazebo and returning to the palace, she could already feel a change in the air. Summer was on the horizon. Laughing, she began to run. She had to tell her subjects about how beautiful change could be.

She couldn't wait to see how much beauty her kingdom had in store. Unknown beauty, yes, but she knew that whatever it was, it would be breathtaking.

“Thank you, Henry.” She whispered. And as she walked through the palace hall, she swore she could smell roses.

All around her, she could sense peace.

She stood motionless, her bare feet damp from the wistful stroll she had taken through the fairytale-like wood. Closing her eyes, she gently gripped the rail that prevented her from melting into the greenery.

And she sighed.

With the earth below her so at peace, she could not help but to allow herself to succumb to its serene embrace. The inner turmoil of the neon world she lived in dulled and faded, replaced by the cool green wilderness.

She listened to the rain.

She could hear each individual, pristine drop hitting the leaves of the natural canopy around her. The gentle tambour of their descent from the heavens created a beautiful lullaby which she could not describe in simple words. It was, at its root, perfection.

In this green wooded palace she found her inner sanctuary. It took over her jaded soul and filled it with the song of the rain. She knew that as soon as she left her safe haven, the neon world would again overtake her mind. But the rain cleansed her very spirit. She could feel it rolling down her face and back.

She was clean.

With every drop she felt hope. Though the skies above her were gray and the sun was quickly turning out its light, each drop of rain filled her heart with sunshine. It made her smile.

The rain began to slow. But the rain made her happy. She embraced the rain. Danced and laughed and smiled at the rain. Loved the rain.

But even though rain leaves, it always ends up coming back. The rain would always come back to cleanse the girl of her neon world.

So she left the green palace behind. Yet every time the rain came gently tapping at her window, she would smile.

Rain brought peace.