The True Death

He was not like the others. Poor souls lost without an inkling of who they are. Torn to shreds by the madness of memory loss. He was young. A child. A newborn. Left in the cold damp soil of a foggy forest. He did not cry, he sat still. He was waiting for me, no, he was waiting for his mother. Grasping out for some breast to feed from. I waited from across the clearing hoping someone would take him. Be it my brother to take his mortal soul or some other mortal soul. But I must do my job. Reap the forgotten. I picked him up and held the infant in my hands. He looked at me and smiled. Grasping his tiny hands around my skeletal fingers. I bring him closer to my chest and cradle him. Hush him to sleep and take him away into the fog, into the village. I look around at the grass top cottages, the stone chimneys, and glance down at the boy. With tears filling my empty sockets a choose a doorstep, the blacksmith. I swaddle the child with my robes, knock on the door, and fly away. I hope to meet him again someday. When he has lived a full life, marry, have children of his own. Nobody who hasn't been remembered deserves to be forgotten.