And the winter jus kept on coming

I never saw the hills scorched by winter before. Spring came late and the brown dead growth failed to turn green until late June. There was less of everything, less birds, less badgers and less hares. All the old timers around us were saying that the next winter would be colder and the one after that worse again. It was still a pleasure to walk them, and the rising and falling of my footsteps easily lent themselves to new songs. Charles was always at home playing the mandolin, always with a new run or progression that he wanted to share. Karil was who I wanted for the music but nobody new where she was or how we could find her. The trailer that she used to live in lay empty, mouldering and vulnerable to the vicious winds. I passed it nearly every day and it seemed that each day I came by there was less chance she would ever return to it.
Charles and I would sit on his porch looking out on the rocky wastes and drinking Torpedos . We would run through the old songs then get stuck on the new ones. 'You know she's never coming back here'. Charles was right, I just did not want to know. We would always get drunk and sing the songs that she taught us.