Wind swirled past her face caressing her cheek, drying her tears.

Just like dad used to.

The gentle wind, touch light and kind, belaying a deep strength softly played the chimes behind her.

Her father had made those. Carved them and fashioned them with the love and care that he had raised her with.

The grey light cast by the moon illuminated the world around her in shades of black and white. The color seemed non-existent. Where was the life and joy from yesterday? Had the light died, not to return? Had joy fallen, never to rise?

“Sweaty,” a soft voice, a caring tone. She studiously ignored it.

She hadn't been there before. She didn't need to be here now.

A soft hand touched her cheek. The fingers were tender. Unmarked by years of working with their hands. She pulled away from the touch, throat constricting. Shivers wracked her form.

“Oh baby,” arms wrapped around her. Soft, weak. Not the strong arms that carried her when she fell asleep in the car. Or when she fell and hurt herself.

“Don't touch me!” she shrieked, pulling free from the arms. Kicking backward when their grip tightened.

“You need to calm down,” the voice snapped.

That voice. She hated that voice.

“Get away from me,” she curled up, sides heaving with sobs. She just wanted him back.

“Oh baby, please.”

“No! You didn't want me then, and I don't want you now.”

She was near hysteria now. Breaths came in as short rapid pulls before she was dragged back under. She didn't know how long she sank in that black void, how long memories and fears and hopes and desires danced before her eyes. How long she yearned he had stayed or she had gone. Not this awful separation. She was roused when those weak soft arms wrapped around her, attempting to lift her.

She threw herself out of the arms, not even feeling the stabbing shock as her elbow banged the hardwood floor. It couldn't compare to the fire that danced in her heart, the pit in her soul the internal void that filled her every time she remembered he was gone.









She woke up on the same hardwood floors. Floors he had swept. A sliver of sun was seen as it prepared for its arduous trek across the sky. Clouds floated above, heavy and dark with the weight of their pain.

The sky opened its voice, cries rang out as silver tears as precious as blood spilled forth. And the world comforted her and joined in her cries.

She shivered, the reaction was more physical than out of discomfort. The chill lived in her bones and dwelled in her soul. No cold could harm her now.

She stood, as she had every day since that blackest of days. She struggled to the bush they had planted, the bush they had nurtured. She reached forward grasping the base of the rose, she slipped her hand down, leaving a trail of deep red where the sharp thorns sliced her delicate skin. Exactly three and a half hands beneath the base of the flower, the exact size of his two hands, she cut the stem.

She left the bush, and walked through the forest, heedless of the fresh rain that mixed with her tears.

She stumbled, and nearly fell seven times. Just like yesterday and before then. She approached the stone column, kneeling in the mud, knees nearly giving out as she slowly bowed her head.

She placed the rose on the stone, then carefully pricked her finger upon a thorn.

She reached up and traced her finger along the curving letters, bathing them in her blood. For it was her heart that lay here beneath the dirt.

Here lies Will Remon

a brother, an uncle, a friend, a father

Her heart skipped a beat as she traced the last word, her sight blurred, the wind echoed her feelings as the trees cried her pain. She reached forward again, tracing the last lines, specified by her father.

“Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted in me? Hope you in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.

“Why did you leave?” she stays there, as the heaven cries, and the sky roars and the trees groan, and lying on her father's grave, a single, black rose.

Her heart shatters within her, and she falls across his grave. A raging pounding fear and hatred and anger. Silver pours from her eyes, mixing with the dark red from her finger, they flow down across the grave, then into the earth, where they are swallowed, like everything.

She calls her anguish to the sky and beats her fear into the earth. A roaring tempest whirls through her and she feels so helpless.

She lies on her back, though for how long she knows not. Tears and rain wet her face, and the wind ruffles her hair, and she just, misses him.

Misses his touches and kisses and hugs. His love and his doting attention. His stern voice when she messes up and his pride when she does well. His soft, warm brown eyes as he smiles down at her and promises it will be alright.

When her mother had left to drown her sorrows in the bottom of a bottle and the world had been pulled from beneath her. It was he that had stood firm, that had held her and loved her. And now he was gone, and she fell alone.

Once upon an ending,

a story comes to close.

Naught remain her for comfort,

but the sorrow of the lone black rose.

What comfort do you offer?

What but loss can a bring?

She sits alone in solitude,

her lonely voice does sing.

When one cries beneath a Sycamore,

and the other lie beneath the sand.

The tie that bound them severed now,

shall you say courage, stand?

The ravens cry,

they sing in pairs.

The black rose comes,

I shall cease my tears?

Rather raven cry no more,

perhaps the sun shan't rise?

The world shall hold you in its arms,

 shall share with you your cries?

Rather the bleak voice,

the tired black rose shall say.

Stand my love, courage now,

stand on this blackest day.

September 11, 2022 17:08

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RBE | Illustration — We made a writing app for you | 2023-02

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