“Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

She hadn’t been here in a while… truth be told… it had been almost 6 months… The groundskeepers have not been here to do spring clean up yet… there are branches bare and lying on the grass… straw like yellowed grass … sharp… with new bright green sprouts beginning to pop through them showing life renewed… the grass will be the only life brought back here… the friends here would never walk on this grass… She stopped then… next to the statue of the angel… and the fountain that was still dry awaiting maintenance and care. Stooping to pluck a blade of the fresh new green grass she let out a long shaky breath… exhaling deeply and inhaling the scent of the pines that framed the hillside… she twirled the grass between her fingers and wished for a moment that the lives buried under it could be reborn as well, that she could pluck her friend and put him at her side again… his shoulder brushing against hers as they walked… his laughter at her morbid sense of humor… his constant need to startle her… causing her to jump, shrink back and scream of terror… his companionship.

Her eyes traveled then to one of the grouping of pines along the path… his marker was over grown with dandelions and long crab grass… and regardless of her need to have time stand still… or stop all together… it had passed. She made her way there and squatted down… tracing his name with the tip of her finger… the granite still cold… the ground beneath it must be cold as well… she was cold… was he? she pulled the dandelions… blowing on a few and watching their seeds blow through the air… dancing with it as if the wind were leading it through some intricate steps. She pulled back the coarse crab grass… cutting her finger on a blade… similar to a paper cut.

“I am sorry I have been away so long my friend. There is not a day that you are not part of a story I tell or a gesture that I make. I miss you.”

She felt better… talking to him… she knew the stages of grief… she believed she could still feel his light here… she would return often.

She made her way back down the hillside… and outside the gates of the Washington Street Cemetery. They were there… waiting for her… they each took a side of her… their shoulders brushing hers.. She smiled up at at the sky as the sun shone so brightly… as it does every spring after a cold long winter. Each moment counted… Each word could be the last …  this  season was meant to be savored.

“I Love you guys”

They smiled down at her and both leaned in at the same time until she was crushed between them “Smunch Sandwich!”

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18 Responses to Cold No More.- Fiction

  1. mom the ibscure says:

    I love the way this story unwinds. Are the two at the end her children?

  2. Morgan says:

    I enjoyed the details of her stooped over the gravestone. I could see her, plucking the dandelions and watching the seeds blow. Well done.

  3. Sara says:

    You really captured the sense of grief and loss in this story. I liked the lines: “tracing his name with the tip of her finger.” This says much in so few words. It’s something I’ve done myself before.

    You did a good job of conveying that life moves on.

    I also really like the mountain picture and the quote!

  4. Kerry says:

    Thank you so much for reading!

  5. Patricia says:

    Interesting reply to the prompt – certainly reveals a host of emotions and progression of feelings. Enjoyed reading it.

  6. TMW Hickman says:

    I liked the emotions you conveyed by gestures or actions. Subtle, but powerful.

  7. Lyssa Medana says:

    I loved your description of the plants, it made things very vivid to use ‘pines’ and not ‘trees’. Lyssa M x

  8. Atreyee says:

    Beautifully written!Memories of friends who pass over are never gone-great she came to visit again.I loved the light hearted ending too:-)

  9. Debbie says:

    Really enjoyed this. I felt the apprehension as well as the relief. I wish I knew who she was walking with at the end.

  10. Cameron says:

    I lost a friend some years ago whose light is, as you say, still with me. There’s no marker for his grave, no one place we can go to mark our grief in that way, and the way you write this is the way I imagine it would be to be able to do that. Bittersweet and ever moving forward.

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