He dug her grave himself. His fingers blistered and bled down the crude wooden shovel, but still he persisted. Whenever he hit a rock, he would drop the shovel, sink to his knees and dig around it with his bare hands. Twice he tore fingernails completely off. His was a calm desperation.
It took him two full days to finish.
Once he covered her, he left. To him, the name of the town where she rests is long forgotten. It didn't matter: Mother was dead. He had no real reason to go back.
There was never a doubt in his mind about what he had to do. He was tempted, so very tempted to lie next to her in the grave, to hold her until Death took him to where she was. But for now, the air needed him.
Every time wind flowed at his command, moving his mother's puppet fluidly, perfectly, he remembered. Until he could find the girl with wings, until he found the one who danced in the breeze, the air would dance for him. He would have to keep moving, keep living, until that day when the air no longer needed him to dance.