All I see is rotten bodies with a greenish hue. Dripping eyeballs and flaking skin.
Their sounds are scary, crunching bones mingled with moaning that would be heartbreaking, came it not from an undead, no longer a person.
They are shuffling, some with missing limbs, all of them dirty and probably stinking like the sixth circle of hell.
Now they have smelled something, they shift their bodies and cock their heads, sniffing, searching. They are hungry, closing in.
I’m pulling my blanket up, on the verge of being afraid.
But these are my old friends, surrounding me.
And not only the undead, though they have shared my life for quite some time now.
I mean the others. My husband, to my left, holding my hand. My newest friend to my right, leaning in to my old friend, her husband-to-be, squeaking at the Walkers when I am.
Last our glassblower to the front, protector of the fire.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the combination of Undead, old friends and various snacks makes my heart heavy. In a good way.