I hold the bloom in my hand, staring into its unfurling petals, staring into the abyss cupped in its heart. Thorns stab into the flesh of my palm but I do not loosen my grip, do not release it. Blood drips from the cuts, sticky and hot on my skin, and falls to the ground at my feet, dark scarlet beads on frosted soil. Around me, the world trundles on. A robin flitters overhead, red breast as brilliant as my blood; the clouds drift lazily through the brilliant pool of azure sky, and people, so many people, parade past the gates, chatting, laughing, living.
I’m not sure how long I have been standing here, staring at the rose. Maybe it has been minutes, but maybe it has been days, or months, or years. And yet, perhaps no time has passed at all. The wind gently ruffles the red petals, walking along my fingers in a tender caress. Almost like a hand, like a hand reaching out and taking mine. I feel my eyes stutter shut.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I can hear her sweet, bubbling laughter erupt, with a passion unrivalled, from the branches of the tree, her tree. It will always be her tree. In spring when blossoms bud and grow and bloom, and autumn, when the ripe apples dip the branches, tempting, tempting her out amongst them. She has only to call my name, and I’ll come running, gathering her in my arms so that I might hear her laugh again.
The tree, her tree is silent. it will only be silent now, mourning. Mourning the loss of the apples that autumn brings. Mourning that which time strips away. Mourning….
Just mourning.
My blood drips again, once, twice. The third droplet trickles down my arm into the crease of my elbow. I am bleeding, inside and out. Crying, inside, and out. Breaking, once more, with that laughter playing inside my ears; that laughter, haunting me.
I force my eyes open and look down at the grave stone before me. I cannot read it, cannot see the words I know are there. Then I place the rose atop her grave and walk away.