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The Fading Light
Dec. 13th, 2021 04:45 amThe light was already fading when he realized that today had been "the day of" and that he had, for all earthly intents, entirely missed it.
It had, in fact, been the light that had reminded him, the way the sun had hung low above the winter horizon, even though it was only late afternoon, and not quite mid-December, on what would've been her birthday.
In the past, he'd always remembered it, even in the years when they hadn't been getting on well with each other, had not been able to make even a pretense of it, between themselves, for their young children, for the sake of their family.
But now, this day, this time, these soon-to-be 5 years since her passing, he knew it was too late. Too late for him to pass through the iron and granite gates with the single yellow flower he'd meant to get for her along the way.
To bring to her, conscious of nothing in the earth beneath him, this bright and fragile thing to place upon the marble ledge above her.
While she, never hearing the words he always said as he stood there--still inexplicably conscious, still breathing--pretended to listen.
She who'd left him here to do these things, to say these words, to make this pilgrimage, this journey for, who could even guess how many years, after she was gone.
And so, he said them to himself, this time thinking that, after all, she might still hear because he, after all this time, still held her in his heart like the fragile yellow flower he hadn't understood she'd always been...
LPK
Dreamwidth
12.13.2021
It had, in fact, been the light that had reminded him, the way the sun had hung low above the winter horizon, even though it was only late afternoon, and not quite mid-December, on what would've been her birthday.
In the past, he'd always remembered it, even in the years when they hadn't been getting on well with each other, had not been able to make even a pretense of it, between themselves, for their young children, for the sake of their family.
But now, this day, this time, these soon-to-be 5 years since her passing, he knew it was too late. Too late for him to pass through the iron and granite gates with the single yellow flower he'd meant to get for her along the way.
To bring to her, conscious of nothing in the earth beneath him, this bright and fragile thing to place upon the marble ledge above her.
While she, never hearing the words he always said as he stood there--still inexplicably conscious, still breathing--pretended to listen.
She who'd left him here to do these things, to say these words, to make this pilgrimage, this journey for, who could even guess how many years, after she was gone.
And so, he said them to himself, this time thinking that, after all, she might still hear because he, after all this time, still held her in his heart like the fragile yellow flower he hadn't understood she'd always been...
LPK
Dreamwidth
12.13.2021
