(no subject)
In the midst of winter, snow lay heavily across the grass. The small stones had long fallen over and the larger ones stood above them, sheltering them from the biting wind. She wandered among them, brushing off names, placing a pebble or flower on the ones she came most often to visit. In the midst of winter, these stones had few visitors. The wind howled through the trees and caught her hair and scarf; she held them tight and huddled deep within her coat. Her boots stepped gentle footprints above the snow as she made her way against the guardian wind to the small stone still standing in the corner, the oldest of those remaining. The name was faded, but she traced the ridges with gloved fingertips as her lips mouthed the name.
In the midst of winter, even the silence howled.
With care, she brushed off the snow from the stone and placed upon it the brambles she had cut. There were no roses to be found this year, so she had brought only the branches.
She sat and leaned her head against the stone, watching the snow fall all around her. The tree sheltered the two of them, long ago planted with loving hands to shade the stone and its visitor from sun or rain or sleet. Now leafless, it still performed its duties well, guarding her little patch from all the snow but that which blew in on the sideways wind.
In the alcove formed between the trunk and the stone, the wind calmed to a gentle murmur. In the midst of winter, it felt like the first breath of sunshine.
She rested her head against the pillow of moss and closed her eyes. In the darkening gloom of evening, the shadows rose to cover her face and gentle, frostbitten fingers.
She lay still with a smile on her lips as the blue crept along the edge of her chin, the line of her cheekbone. The smile played across her face the way a tongue of fire dances across a burning log; touching here and there, never still yet never quite moving.
Darkness fell swiftly with the night in the midst of winter, and soon the shadows faded into the black so thick even the whiteness of the snow could not uncover.
In the morning, the groundskeeper came to brush off the snow. Brambles covered the two stones under the ancient, leaning willow in the corner, and he dared not touch them for the thorns. In the midst of winter, the tiny pink buds had not yet grown from among the piercing shoots. He took a fallen branch and pushed back the brambles to read the epithets, as he always did-Dearest Husband, Son; Loving Wife, Daughter. It is said she had died of sorrow after his passing, but the dates had long since eroded.
Under the branches of the weeping willow, it always seemed warmer, sheltered from the wind. It was the midst of winter, yet the sun had broken through the snow to shine down and illuminate the willow. A beam escaped the tangle of branches to shine just on the name carved into the second stone-“Rose,” he said, and a whisper of wind echoed through the willow. He felt her presence, as he did many mornings in the midst of winter, for this was when they say they found her floating in the broken ice.
He let the brambles fall back into place, obscuring the names again. In the midst of winter, even the dead seemed to live.
In the midst of winter, even the silence howled.
With care, she brushed off the snow from the stone and placed upon it the brambles she had cut. There were no roses to be found this year, so she had brought only the branches.
She sat and leaned her head against the stone, watching the snow fall all around her. The tree sheltered the two of them, long ago planted with loving hands to shade the stone and its visitor from sun or rain or sleet. Now leafless, it still performed its duties well, guarding her little patch from all the snow but that which blew in on the sideways wind.
In the alcove formed between the trunk and the stone, the wind calmed to a gentle murmur. In the midst of winter, it felt like the first breath of sunshine.
She rested her head against the pillow of moss and closed her eyes. In the darkening gloom of evening, the shadows rose to cover her face and gentle, frostbitten fingers.
She lay still with a smile on her lips as the blue crept along the edge of her chin, the line of her cheekbone. The smile played across her face the way a tongue of fire dances across a burning log; touching here and there, never still yet never quite moving.
Darkness fell swiftly with the night in the midst of winter, and soon the shadows faded into the black so thick even the whiteness of the snow could not uncover.
In the morning, the groundskeeper came to brush off the snow. Brambles covered the two stones under the ancient, leaning willow in the corner, and he dared not touch them for the thorns. In the midst of winter, the tiny pink buds had not yet grown from among the piercing shoots. He took a fallen branch and pushed back the brambles to read the epithets, as he always did-Dearest Husband, Son; Loving Wife, Daughter. It is said she had died of sorrow after his passing, but the dates had long since eroded.
Under the branches of the weeping willow, it always seemed warmer, sheltered from the wind. It was the midst of winter, yet the sun had broken through the snow to shine down and illuminate the willow. A beam escaped the tangle of branches to shine just on the name carved into the second stone-“Rose,” he said, and a whisper of wind echoed through the willow. He felt her presence, as he did many mornings in the midst of winter, for this was when they say they found her floating in the broken ice.
He let the brambles fall back into place, obscuring the names again. In the midst of winter, even the dead seemed to live.