Sitting on a cold, wet bench, my head lies in my left hand, and my right hand holds a heavy bouquet. A dripping, misty drizzle gently cries over the cemetery. Somehow, all the colors are brighter, and the air smells so fresh.
The headstone reads: 'Jane Ashbury, Beloved Daughter', and indicates seventeen years with a solemn dash.
It says nothing about my undying love for her. It says nothing about her boyfriend.
I miss her more than her parents: her boozing, workaholic dad, and her neglectful, derisive mother.
Her smile haunts my flickering memory, a memory which stabs in my mind like a thorn. I remember the moonlight on her skin, and the freckles on her shoulders.
I remember the oncoming headlights, and the screaming breaks. I remember the broken glass, the twisted metal, the smoke and fire.
Gently laying the dripping bouquet on her headstone, I pick up my crutches and limp slowly into the rain.
End
No comments:
Post a Comment