Brigit's Flame - Week 3 - I Love You
The black stone stretches for a mile down the road. It has a fine, reflective sheen. The sunlight glances off of it, and it makes the eyes water if he doesn't turn away.
For some, that's not the only thing.
There must be dozens of people here that Mark can see. Men, women, children. Some of them are families with the pieces missing. Too many of them are alone.
Mark walks down the line, looking for the names. It takes time. He has to step around a family here, children speaking in hushed tones. A woman leans her forehead against the stone, and he sees her shaking.
He doesn't stop walking until he finds the names he's looking for. Carved letters stare out at him from the stone.
Linda Bell
Marcus Bell
Stephanie Bell
It isn't easier to see the names now. Their deaths are a year gone, and Mark has made his peace. The grief, however, is still his to bear.
For grief is a facet of love, and as love never ends, neither can grief.
He stands there watching, and the memories arise. The fumes and the fire, yes, but also the good times. Coming home in the winter night to find fire and coffee with liquor in it. Listening to his mother when she tells him stories about the stars. Putting a frog down his sister's shirt, and then facing the music when she retaliates with the garden hose. Wrestling with his father, and the roughness of the man's hands when they embrace after.
The grief stopped cutting him a long time ago. But that doesn't mean it stopped hurting.
He stands there, a small breeze blowing. He doesn't know what to say. He never does.
In the end, he kisses his hand before placing his palm on their names.
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A/N: Last minute post is last minute. I think, for being so rushed, it's not bad. I remember reading an article dealing with grief, and it struck me so.
Also, I didn't know his surname before writing this, so, hey.