Remembrance

The wind blows softly against my face, caressing my tears as they stream down my cheeks, each one an exquisite jewel of sorrow, carrying with them the understanding and acceptance I have strived to greet with open arms for so long. It seems my cycle of grief will never truly end. They say time helps erase the pain. I would care to disagree with a passion. Time burns the memories into your mind, branding you with what once was. A slide show of happiness, observed only through the layers of grief that bind you so tightly. Prison or death would be more welcoming. But I am glad of the memories. They are my guides in my darkest of moments.

The grass around me ripples like a sea of green, and I can hear the birds singing their merry songs, oblivious of my own world. The sunlight burns overhead, shimmering delicately against the sea to my left and glinting off the polished white gravestone in front of me that now completely occupies my attention. Nature is stupid I think. Nature sets the stage all wrong for such a day. What happened to all the old cliches of rain, pathetic fallacy in its most intrusive and unwelcome form? People all dressed in black, their heads bowed in prayer, a show of respect and a final reinforcement of what is truly lost forever. They stand behind me now, outwardly sympathetic, but impatient of me, and slightly uncomfortable in my oppressive silence. They have lives of their own to attend, even if mine is shattered.

The sun burns against my back but I feel cold, and shiver slightly in spite of the warm breeze and summer heat. I know I should get up and go, just leave and grieve in silence, without the repressive presence of mourners. But I am paralysed in my moment of remembrance, content to sit here with you and reminisce on our days together, as we used to. The tears begin to flow again, and this time I let them run freely. I close my eyes and cast my mind back.

Even as I see them now, it seems like I had filled in the gaps, making my memories of you appear happier and, dare I say it, slightly superficial. But that was how I had felt then. That was all that mattered to me. For isn't that what all our memories are in the end? The product of our experiences rather than our visual illustrations? I think so anyway. But maybe that is a mark of my own immaturity that I remember it in such a way. I don't care.

I open my eyes then, and squint against the harshness of the sun. The real world hits home like a punch to the gut. I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling very drained and haggard. I lie down on the warm sand, head near the silent gravestone, and close my eyes. My mind returns to headlights on dark roads...