There was an open-invite party at the tomb of the woman whose statue had to be put back together before she could move on. I would not have known about the shindig, except a hummingbird courier was sent to me with news of the celebration and a strongly worded suggestion to attend incognito.
It looked like any other party open to the public. The street outside and the outer chambers were filled with the fuckery of the common. I made my way through the crowd, unremarkable, unnoticed, retracing my steps to the inner chamber where I said my farewells to the small statue.
The final chamber had been sealed up and the now solid wall was painted over. The murals showed the deceased hard at work in her after life profession (she became a potter), and sharing her bounties with her loved ones and her gods. One scene showed her sitting on the ground while making small pots. Shelves were depicted behind her, filled to the brim with already made pots. The palm sized crockery each had a different symbol on it. The top shelf had pots with god names and symbols. The middle shelf started with the pharoah’s symbols with lesser important symbols following. The bottom shelf held very simple symbols. Probably family and friends, for whom elaborate images were not necessary, or possible.
It made me happy. I knew she would be okay when her spirit moved on. But to see the scene was a confirmation of it. I nodded and started to turn away.
“Wait. You’re not seeing everything.” A black hand with gold fingernails rested lightly on my shoulder. I almost fell from the density that touch stopped my movement with. I nodded, in respect and in acknowledgement, and turned back again to the scene.
The black hand with gold fingernails pointed to the very last pot on the bottom shelf. A plain pot made with plain clay, painted unremarkably red like all the others, had only one symbol to adorn it. A solitary black feather painted with the calamus pointing down.
My first interpretation was far too quick and therefore, likely wrong, not to mention a little egotistical and assuming. “I’ll have to refer to the Kemetic Fandom to understand that reference, Sir.”
The black hand with gold fingernails slapped me lightly on the back in mirth. I fell to my knees, slightly stunned from the tap.
“She remembers. I remember. Nothing happens unseen, or unknown. Thank you.”
I didn’t realize I had been isolated from the revelers until the black presence left. Nor did I realize I had been kept from turning around to see the entity’s face this entire time. I looked again at the mural. She was happy in all the scenes. I like Happy Ever Afters. They don’t come often, so yes, each one should be celebrated.
As I turned to leave the funeral chambers, it dawned on me the entity’s exact wording. “Nothing happens unseen.” Ayin, much? Even here? I left the sealed chamber and in doing so, the dream.