w o r r i e r
She sits in that quiet house like a noise never did echo round its hallways and unfurnished rooms. Gazing her eyes fixated on nothing outside; a garden starkly lacking laughing guests, a fountain with no birds. As gently as it will allow, her hand slides up the window, its dusty greying paint lacing her fingertips like ash as her old bones creak and wain through its stiff friction. The quiet chafe of wood blisters the silence, and she shuts her eyes and stops lifting. A faint wind soaks through her top like a cold hug whilst the radiator presses to her jeans, and so she returns herself back to the wooden chair to the same old temperatures and views. Wearily she goes back to looking out of that window, to her empty garden and her empty fountain. With its unloved bushes and overgrowing trees she lets out her breath. She closes her eyes and sees the world from half her height, as her dad crouches infront of her smile adorned and her mum makes the dinner in that old pot they used to have. Intangible, gone. And now she’s old and weathered, the years have turned her soul to become her garden. She gently caresses her hands, feeling the solid smoothness of her wedding ring, with its loved scratches and all, as a tear marks her left eye. And then the ring vanishes, the lights shine strongly and she writhes out of her thoughts to a room of now. Loving memories mesh to walls like family in the faint light of the open door, and she hears through the walls his having got up to the bathroom, and she realises. Sad thoughts of love loss are our proof that we have love; that fear of day to day life thinking we won’t find the love that life has to give, its purpose and sun, is the bad dream, but not the truth. A worried time is allowed, a fear is rational, as what life would it be without his love? He comes back in the room and gets back into the bed, unawares she’d awoke and immediately gets a tight hug. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She whispers. ‘My life is yours, my love.’ He promises.
