Rain is blown about by wind. It carries a bitter cold that bites into our man’s soul, chilling him with the venom of a snake hath slithered down from the clouds, leaving him sitting on a lonely bench among graves and shivering in the dying light of western dusk. The cemetery holds no living soul save he. It grows along rolling hills like a congregation of weeds conspiring to see the death of all who walk the earth in an effort to feed its quiet, lonely fire, and the hills themselves act like great pillars brought forth from the soil by some cosmic being who saw it fit to elevate the dead.
Our man is bearing the cold with his winter heart, jaw clenched, and with sour eyes that watch the soil where his child is buried beneath and reaching up to him with skeletal hands unseen. He lets the rain sting his face in a righteous act of phantom suffering. Her grave is only six feet away, yet barely visible through the engrossing weeds and vines that paint it green.
The sun slowly fades and it seems all the world forgets him and his daughter. We watch as he stands and walks shaking to the grave and kneels among the emerald blades and lies atop his daughter’s final resting place, weeping like a babe silently into the inevitable dusk and not once does he move throughout the night while the insects sing their songs of remembrance before moving on to other songs. And in days to come our man moves on to other sorrows and we are left here watching as the weeds continue growing and covering the ornaments of the dead and as more spectres come weeping into the dusk and dawn eternally.
END
Author note:
No matter how bad your pain feels, the world will always keep moving forward. Let that be whatever small grace it is.
Take care,
Lenny out.
Wow, this is special. Love the style in this one. It reads like a poem.
Short but sweet. 👌