“Storm heaven on his behalf,” she cried.
“How?” I whispered.
“Just do it,” she screamed.
Never one for storming in anything larger than a teacup, I tried. Lord how I tried. I pictured myself raging at black clouds, lightning bolts flying from my fingertips. I pictured myself hurtling through grey clouds, tornadoes whirling from my flapping arms. I even pictured myself snorting as I rampaged across fields of pure-white clouds. However, no matter what I tried, no pearly gates materialized.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked, kneeling. “I can’t get there.”
“I know,” she sobbed, shoving away my outstretched hand. “He’s dead.”
“Writing helps shed light on those shadows that lurk in my mind.” – the writer